Obvious Things
by Cuckoo on a String
Summary: Bane's mind was at odds with his eyes. The miracle he witnessed was not possible, and it must be some sort of trick. Then he saw the little cloud of condensation she'd left behind as she breathed those final, defiant words. "No thank you." He smiled beneath his mask. Maybe Gotham had more literal ghosts than he'd expected, but they breathed, and they were rather polite.
1. No Thank You

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

Chapter 1: No Thank You

 _"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."_

 _Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

Fern's greatest claim to fame was her close encounter with the bumper of Bruce Wayne's Rolls Royce Phantom V. Wherever he was going, he must've been in a damned hurry, because he sent her skidding fifteen feet, just shy of oncoming traffic. Her bicycle took the brunt of the trauma, but she still kissed the pavement. All things considered, though, she was damn lucky. She walked away from the incident.

Her bike wasn't so lucky. In the same hit, she lost her only form of transportation, her most valuable possession, and her primary means of income.

At least the guy had the conscience to stop and get out of his car, but Fern had extricated herself by that point, and she wasn't interested in the playboy or his money. The approaching sirens drove her into an alley before Wayne could even check his bumper for damage. If she went to the hospital in an ambulance, she'd leave in the back of a cop car. The authorities had a thing about citizens under the age of eighteen running amok without adult supervision. Fern didn't exactly run amok, but she sure as hell ran. She was fifteen at the time. And she knew the only people who would come to claim her road-burned ass were from Child Protective Services.

Booger saw it all, and he turned her short flight across the intersection of West Fifteenth and Otto Ave. into the stuff of legends. He regaled the rest of Gotham's rejects around trashcan fires, hyping the inadvertent damage into an intentional statement. Once Fern licked her wounds and came back to sniff around for work, everyone who had stood in line at the soup kitchen during the past week knew her name. Booger made her sound like a daredevil, tempting fate and flipping off The Man. Really, Wayne just needed to go back to driving school so he could understand the right of way and the general purpose of crosswalks. But Fern didn't bother correcting the story, and it actually helped her find more work. Suddenly a bunch of local restaurants forgot to ask for ID before giving her delivery jobs, and all concerns about paying her in cash evaporated. Word on the street said she was fast, tough, and could finish a job even after being hit by a car. The truth was that she was lucky and she hadn't even been on a job at the time. No one gave a flying fuck about the truth in Gotham anyway, though, so it wasn't a problem.

Fern collected cans and ran errands on foot until she had enough for a new bike. It wasn't the worst thing she'd lived through.

The cops were a problem for a while, though. Wayne or a witness filed a report about the accident, and the fact that a rich guy was involved perked police interest enough to at least make a show of looking for her. Booger helped her out. Let her hide in one of the refrigerator boxes he jealously guarded. Soon enough, the police gave up and Fern carried on.

* * *

She fell out with Booger when she was seventeen, and it was her own fucking fault. It was winter. Gotham froze over. Ice everywhere. Usually naturally occurring ice made for a shitty mirror. Too many bubbles and cracks. Contrary to the movies, it rarely froze in a smooth sheet, either. Lots of little pits and scratches from the wind and traffic made most ice useless. But that day Fern just happened to get lucky. Again.

A low puddle sitting in a corner of the warehouse the city's homeless population had claimed for the foreseeable future escaped the worst of the elements. It offered a nearly perfect imitation of Fern's face. So, she took off her shoes, stripped away her socks, and hopped right in.

She'd always wondered if ice of the right quality functioned like mirrors and chrome. Now she had her answer.

Gravity let her fall through to the _Other_.

Moving through reflections spat her into the _Other_ as a perfect mirror image, complete with physical inertia. In the regular world, where Bugger slept in his lean-to a few yards away and police sirens wailed in the distance, her feet had touched the glass first. In the _Other_ , where the world was preternaturally still and faintly bleached, she appeared with her feet leaving the same puddle. Her little hop didn't provide much velocity, and she barely spread her feet to catch herself before she fell straight back through.

The space behind reflections made no sense. But then, it wasn't supposed to be there at all. She sure as hell never understood the how's and why's of her little curse. The only person who might have been able to explain was dead.

Her eyes tracked across the space, looking for other points of entry. A small pocket mirror gleamed from a tent on the other side of the room, but even the broken glass in the first story windows were too dusty and pitted to provide a way home. The frozen puddle was the only available door. It made Fern uneasy. As much as she hated the _Other_ , it did provide a literal escape when things went sideways. With no points of entry besides the puddle, she should really find a new place to crash. After all, spring would come eventually, and there was no telling who might piss in the hole over the next few days.

She didn't stay in the _Other_ long. A sound like tinkling bells echoed in the abandoned space, and Fern dropped right back through the ice. Gotham was a dangerous place. The _Other_ was often worse.

When she came out on the right side of the world, she caught herself in the same spread-eagle landing she used to go through. She rose from her crouch to see Booger staring at her. They locked eyes, and Fern felt like he was memorizing her, trying to dispel the link between reality and delusion. It wouldn't be the first time he went for an unpleasant trip through his own fantasies. Maybe, if she waited for him to look away, she could just sit down, and he'd convince himself he'd made it all up, blame her sudden disappearance and reappearance on drugs, alcohol, or his own, personal demons. But he didn't look away, and as his eyes tracked to her bare feet, to the pile of shoes and socks behind her, Fern knew he'd remember. Booger was all about those little details. He'd always remember her naked feet by the ice in the middle of winter. It wasn't the kind of thing he'd make up.

The next morning, he pissed in the frozen puddle, forever warping it beyond use. He started calling Fern Alice after that, and he started self-medicating.

Fern left Booger's part of Gotham for a year, and when she came back, he was gone. Moved on? Dead? Sitting in prison for repeat vagrancy and trespassing offences? Gone. And it was probably her fault, anyway. She started spending less time with her homeless connections and more time in her apartment. She kept her blinds closed, used very dull pots, and covered the bathroom mirror.

Things were going well, all in all. When she was old enough to purchase one without earning dubious looks from sellers, she got a second-hand, street legal dirt bike. Her deliveries got faster, and more jobs opened up. In the evenings, she washed dishes for the nearest restaurants. She survived. She stayed the hell away from mirrors.

They really did bring bad luck.

Then Gotham fell under siege.

* * *

Fern rarely left Gotham's busy, urban heart. The placed thrummed with life, demanding more, more, _more_ in a cycle that continued to build and test the determination of the working class. There were more than enough jobs to keep a few million people hopping, and most of Fern's work kept her close to home, especially since she began working with Jack, owner of The Green Light at the edge of the business district. She delivered food during the day and helped in the back at night. Her route was strictly local, even when she took side jobs from other establishments. But every now and then, someone put in an order from the suburbs, and so long as they were willing to pay the difference in time and gas, she would fulfill them.

Wind rushed into her open-faced helmet, and Fern sucked in the fresh air as she zoomed through the outskirts. Grass. Trees. Less smog. It was amazing how quickly her sooty, city lungs revitalized outside the twisting alleys downtown. It would be a perfect day, if only the weather would cooperate. Gotham's skies almost always threatened rain, but the air always grew cold and heavy before a storm. Locals could smell it. Like lightning and soap, coming to burn their world or scrub it clean. Fern smelled something big on the way. She'd rather not get caught in the middle of it, especially so far from shelter.

At least the delivery had been a simple one. A nanny in one of the big mansions overlooking the city was going through her second trimester and craved some of Jack's soup. His soup was good, Fern would be the first to admit, but only pregnancy would drive someone to offer one hundred bucks for a liter of the stuff. She'd handed over the food for the money and raced for home. A silent gust of wind rippled through the tallest branches of the trees lining the road. The sky pressed lower. No doubt, those clouds were full of rain. Fern gunned her bike and leaned low over the handlebars, determined to at least make it back before the worst of it hit. Jack already teased her enough about her appearance without adding fuel to the fire. Nothing pulled together a look like dripping jeans and damp, helmet-crushed hair.

She was making good time, blasting past mansions and park-like sweeps of formally kept grounds. At that time of day, the area saw very little traffic, and Fern had the road to herself.

Or she did.

Until a Ferrari zipped around the bend and into the wrong lane – her lane. For a second she just blinked, not braking, not swerving. There was just no _way_ shit like this could happen to her twice within ten years. Was she just fated to be a millionaire's hood ornament? Gradually, the Ferrari's blaring horn invaded her senses, and Fern snapped out of her shock just in time to jerk the handlebars to the side. The car clipped her back wheel. She went spinning into the ditch. At the last second, she pushed away from her ride and curled into a ball to absorb the impact. Plush grass met her, offering a much softer landing than she'd enjoyed on the city streets as a teenager. Still hurt, though. The momentum carried her several yards before she came to a stop, and for a minute all she could do was stare up at that threatening sky, gaping helplessly as her lungs tried to kick back into action. It felt a little serene, but even as the first breath punched back into her lungs, white hot fury swept through her soul.

Breaking the speed limit? Fine. Whatever. Rich dude. Par for the course.

Turning a blind corner _in the wrong lane_? Un-fucking-acceptable.

As Fern rolled onto her side, wheezing and trying to test for injuries through the haze of adrenaline, she heard a car door slam closed, followed by the rapid slap of approaching feet across pavement. Getting up was probably a bad idea, especially before she had a chance to check herself over, but like hell was she facing the owner of that car on anything other than her own two feet. Fern was no longer a little fifteen-year-old afraid of the police locking her away in the system. She was an adult. And she was pissed.

"Are you alright?"

At least the guy sounded genuinely worried. Fern sighed and tried to let the worst of her rage slip away. It was a dumb mistake on the driver's fault. A dumb, dangerous mistake, but picking a fight with someone wealthy enough to drive a car like that was just asking for trouble. She brushed her hands off on her jeans, succeeding in doing nothing more than smearing some mud around. "I think I'll live." She turned to face the idiot, moving slowly to make sure everything still worked. "If you could maybe help me with bike, th-"

She froze dead in her tracks. And stared.

Standing above her on the side of the road, dressed in a nice suit, and looking just like the day eight years ago when he knocked her across Otto Avenue was The Man himself: Bruce Wayne. The only noticeable sign of aging was the can he clutched.

Fern blinked, her mouth closing with an audible click. Some things in life should just not be.

"You've got to be shitting me." She straightened up. Gobsmacked, but still angry. "It's you _again_."

Wayne's expression of concern crumbled into confusion. "I'm sorry?" His playboy experience, rusty as it must be, kicked in a moment later, and he extended his hand to help her out of the ditch with a smile. "Do we know each other?"

"No." She ignored the hand and clambered up on her own. "Your _Phantom_ 's bumper and I are acquainted, though."

He didn't even have to pause to think. He just looked at her, looked at her bike lying a few yards away, and brought his incredulous gaze back to her. "What –? Otto Avenue. Kid on a bike. _That_ kid? That's _you_?"

Fern nodded. "Like I said. You again."

Wayne was suddenly reaching for her with open arms, not aggressively, but with determination, and Fern backpedaled fast to get out of range. Although he took the hint and stopped, his hands only dropped halfway to his side. "Come on. I'll give you a lift to the hospital."

Fern reached up to adjust her helmet. A headache was brewing at the base of her spine, and she wondered if she'd have to take a few days off once the aches and pains set in. "No thank you. I'm fine."

Wayne's lips hardened into a flat line. "I just _hit_ you with my _car_. You are not fine. Let me give you a ride."

Fern turned her back on him and slid back down into the ditch. "No. Thank you." She checked over her bike, well aware that Wayne was just standing above her, watching. Once she determined her primary means of income was _not_ too damaged to ride – by some miracle – she grabbed the handlebars and began hoisting it out of the ditch. Wayne took the opportunity to snatch it from the front and assist her, even though his expression betrayed some pain when he dropped the cane. Since Fern lacked the upper body strength to accomplish the chore on her own, she didn't fight him over it. But she didn't thank him, either. Once her bike was back on the road, she immediately swung aboard and kick-started the sad, weak little motor. Wayne looked at her like he was in physical pain, as if he'd been the one to go sailing into a ditch. Or an intersection.

"You should really go to a hospital," Wayne shouted over the engine's whine.

 _You should really learn how to drive_. The taunt itched at the back of her throat, but she didn't release it. She was memorable enough without it. Wayne could still make problems for her if he kept pushing.

She wasn't what most people thought of as an undocumented worker, but she was a true non-entity. After her mother died, she tried to find her birth certificate. During the long winter days she spent soaking in the warmth of the public library she even took her search digital. According to public record, her mother never had any children. It wasn't that strange for addicts to fail to report births, though, especially when they squeezed out their kid alone in a bathtub, as Fern's mother always insisted she had.

Hospitals liked ID.

Fern didn't do hospitals.

Wayne disappeared from her side in a smear of color as she took off. In seconds, she was around the bend and he was out of sight. Hopefully, he'd stay that way this time. Her life finally had a rhythm to it, but a man like Wayne could turn that on its head with one or two simple questions.

Her status as an essential non-entity left a very restricted list of potential careers available. Deliveries, but never for big chains, filled many of her working hours, even so many years after her first introduction to Wayne's bumper. In the daylight hours, she worked as a bike messenger. Lots of businesses needed someone to carry around forgotten supplies, deliver tools, or simply transport important documents. That work stopped once it got dark. Fern had no desire to join the mob, and most businesses that needed nocturnal deliveries carried a high risk of police interference. So when people went home for dinner, she brought them food. Again, only the local restaurants were willing to have her paid off the books, but Gotham had a higher undocumented population than lawmakers would ever willingly acknowledge, and employers could cut employee benefits from their regular expenses if they forgot to fill out a few government forms. After dinner hours passed, and the likelihood of walking into a drug bust rose, Fern went behind the scenes to wash dishes. Then she went home, slept, and did it all again.

That went on until she was twenty-one. Then the slum lord who owned her complex went to prison and the city scheduled the entire block for demolition to make way for something newer, shinier, and more hygienic. Fern had a week to find a new place to live, and while she didn't have many requirements, most places asked for things like ID. She saw the 'Room Available' sign on The Green Light's door when she'd stopped by to pick up a delivery.

It was her first time inside the establishment, and she gave everything a critical eye as she waited for the bartender's attention. Small tables and booths filled the space, and although Fern could see a kitchen through the window on the swinging door behind the bar, that bar was front and center. Alcohol lined racks over a wall-length mirror. The menu was short, the drink list long. Despite that, it was pretty clean.

A man with a beaming smile, hair just long enough to shake out of his eyes, and a silver stud in his right ear approached from behind the bar. Turned out he was the owner, and he didn't just need a tenant. He needed a regular delivery girl and go-for. She moved in the next day. The Green Light earned a reputation for good food and fast delivery over the next few months, demand rose, and soon Jack, the man behind the bar, wasn't just offering free rent. He actually paid her. For two years, things went well.

Then Bruce Wayne hit her. Again.

Fern told herself it didn't mean anything, that it wasn't some awful omen that her lucky streak was over. But the encounter left her rattled, and as the adrenaline slipped away, her side began to ache. By morning, she knew everything would. The first accident seared a lasting impression on her memories, and she knew exactly what to expect after getting hit by a car.

Hopefully it would be a slow day for The Green Light.

As if to emphasize her turning luck, the storm clouds broke when she was only five blocks from home. She wheeled her bike into the back and locked it up before heading inside to report to Jack. He looked up from the register at her entrance and frowned.

"Did you know there's grass in your helmet?"

"No." Fern yanked it off. Damp blue hair swing free, right into her line of sight, and she batted it away irritably as she examined the scratches along her new black headgear. True enough. There was grass wedged into a hairline crack along the side. When she fell, she must've hit a rock. She hadn't even felt it. Maybe that meant her luck was holding. Unfortunately, her helmet didn't share her good fortune. It was practically useless now. The scratches made her look horribly unprofessional, and the break damaged its integrity. She leaned around the bar to toss it in the trashcan, ignoring Jack's squawked protests.

"Guess who ran into me?" she asked.

Jack, accustomed to her dry sense of humor, leaned over the bar eagerly, waiting for the punch line. "Who?"

"Bruce Wayne."

"Wait. No way."

Fern came around, heading towards the back. Maybe she could beg some soup off of Miguel. Apparently, the tumble had roughed her up more than she realized.

"Way," she muttered.

Jack stared at her, like he couldn't believe her. "You have to be joking. No one gets hit by Bruce Wayne _twice_. There's just no way. When you say he ran into you, I'm assuming you mean literally."

"Very literally. I'll have the bruises in the morning to prove it."

"Well, shit."

She stepped through the door, and Miguel immediately looked up from the vegetables he was chopping to give her a very displeased once over. His elevator eyes took in everything. Every scratch Fern hadn't noticed yet. Every streak of mud and dust. He was clearly debating whether or not to kick her out of his kitchen immediately or ask what happened first. After a beat, he asked, "Hit by a truck?"

Fern grinned. "A Ferrari."

Miguel's eyes widened to comical proportions. He gasped, grabbed his chest, and in an affected voice declared, "You sure know how to pick 'em!"

"The thing about accidents is that they pick you," Fern corrected him. "And I feel like I need to remind you that I just got hit by a car."

Snorting, Miguel returned to his chopping. "You want some food, right?"

Just standing in the warm kitchen made Fern feel safe. The smells. The easy joy of busy hands and productive work. She fought to draw out the conversation as long as she could. "You read my mind."

"Well, I will save you some from the next batch. I will leave it in the kitchen upstairs. Go sleep. Or shower. I suggest the shower. You're leaving dirty footprints all over my kitchen. Now get out." He said it without any real fire, but Fern knew to respect the cook while he was in his domain, and she left without a fuss.

* * *

She tried very hard to sleep. But the pain kept getting worse and worse. When she dozed, it invaded her dream and chased her back to waking. Awareness didn't dull the sensation at all, and Fern gingerly rubbed her sides, hoping to sooth it. Nothing worked. Eventually, the ache in her ribs made rest entirely impossible. Just trying to stay in bed caused her more pain. So she gave up, got dressed, and went for a walk.

Nighttime was typically a bad time to go strolling anywhere in Gotham, but for once Fern's restlessness overrode her common sense. The oppressive pressure of a storm front hadn't cleared away, even after the rain, and her mind kept reliving her near death experience at the hands of Bruce Wayne. Hopefully, a walk would tire her body enough to let her mind rest. Stretching her legs could help the pain, too. Although Wayne was the only Gothamite with the dubious honor of hitting her with a car, life as a courier took its toll. Fern knew how to walk off a bad fall. She had suffered lots of practice. A body in motion tended to stay in motion, but a body in bed cramped up stiff as a board for a week.

At least she lived in one of the safer parts of the city now. Rich folks like Miranda Tate lived here. Paparazzi were by far the greatest menace during most hours, and they had no interest in people like Fern. Neither did the local muggers. They looked for wealthier targets, and so long as she kept her head down and didn't make a scene, most people didn't even notice her.

A few cars passed by, splashing through the puddles along the avenue. Mostly, though, Fern was alone. It made Gotham feel surprisingly, even suspiciously, peaceful.

Something rattled in the alley to her right, disturbing her introspection, and she snapped around just in time to see a sewer grate settle on the pavement. She froze, like a startled animal. Old habits died hard, and years of street training told her that while a body in motion stayed in motion, a body at rest had much lower chances of being spotted in dark alleyways. It took everything in her to back up two paces so she was half-hidden by the corner. She couldn't tear her eyes away from that gaping black hole, though.

And then, like a beast crawling up from the pit of hell, a man emerged from the dark. Two broad hands appeared first, and they leveraged a truly hulking frame through the sewer entrance. Fern was honestly surprised he even fit through. But he did. And with a wheezing groan, he straightened up. He was even bigger than she'd thought, like a giant out of a book of fairytales. A mask covered half his face, curling around his head like a muzzle, and bits of metal – like fangs – covered his nose and mouth.

Fern flinched, and the tiny, innocuous movement brought the monster snapping around to face her. He must have the vision of a fucking _owl_ , she thought. One foot slipped behind the other, and she prepared to sprint away. Gotham was full of monsters. This new behemoth didn't really surprise her. But he sure as hell scared her. Judging by the size of him, he could break her ribs with one good smack. Those kinds of people always spelled trouble, especially for little girls out past curfew. So far, Fern's luck had kept her away from the worst of the city's crazies. That lucky streak seemed about to break.

Rather than pulling a gun, like Fern expected, the giant grasped the lapels of his heavy jacket and angled his head back, scrutinizing her. The light fell into the alley from the street, leaving Fern backlit, so she didn't panic. Even if he had exceptional night vision, he couldn't see enough to identify her. Wasn't like she was on any kind of registry, anyway. What was the worst he could do? With her hair tucked under her black beanie, he couldn't even use that as an identifier. She was, as she had always been, just another faceless urchin in the great city of Gotham.

He hummed, and the mask distorted his voice like a speaker. The sound simultaneously distanced the masked man and made him feel incredibly close. The minor amplification matched poorly with his tone, creating a hair-raising dissonance Fern couldn't quite shake away. And as she continued to stare, he came to some sort of decision.

"It's a lovely evening, but perhaps a bad time to go for a walk." His head tilted to the side. "Little one."

He didn't sound concerned, and that was what made the apparent threat sink in. When insecure boys stumbling out of bars shouted things at her, it was because they were afraid. Fern knew the difference between bravado and assurance. This man was all hard, tempered confidence. He didn't have to raise his voice or make idle threats, because he had no _need_ to.

So when he started walking towards her, almost swaggering, with his hands still clutching his coat, Fern knew he planned to teach her exactly _why_ it was a bad night for a walk. Her frozen muscles snapped free of their stupor.

Before she could consciously analyze what she was doing, Fern had spun on her heel and put half a city block behind her. Her first rational thought was that a guy that size couldn't possibly keep up with her. But her animal instinct was still screaming at her, so she didn't stop. She ran fast, careful to move away from home. Even if he couldn't keep up, she saw no reason to point the giant home. Back ways and side streets opened to her, ushering her silently away from the man from hell. Her relationship with Gotham hadn't always been good, or even healthy, but the city offered plenty of shadows for small, hunted things to hide in. Soon, all she heard was the pounding of her heart, and all she felt was the rhythm of her boots on the pavement. Her gasping breath muffled the outside world until she was an insular being, cut off and focused.

But she couldn't run forever.

Her dead sprint slowed to an awkward stumble as she passed a sixth block. Fighting to regain control over her lungs' desperate twitching, Fern ducked into what she thought was another alley. As she turned a second corner with her hands pressed to the top of her head, huffing, she realized she was wrong. Her own reflection stared back at her from the mirrored glass of a seven-story office building. Her hands fell with a short groan. There simply wasn't enough air to give voice to the full volume of her frustration. She would have to go back.

A shadow appeared behind her in the glass, strolling unhurriedly around the corner only a few scant yards behind her. All her recaptured breath left her in a single _whoosh_. She'd known he was big, but the glass drove home the reality of the situation. He shoulders weren't really so broad that they blocked out the streetlights, and he wasn't technically tall enough to blot out the moon, but he filled enough space to make her feel well and truly trapped.

An itch of annoyance stirred under the fear. Nature dictated that big things moved slowly, and if small things practiced long enough, they could avoid those big things with superior speed. Fern might not be as fast as she was as a teen, but she was still exceptionally light on her feet. So, what the hell was this colossus doing keeping pace with her? Did he know a shortcut she'd missed? Could he fly? What the hell? At least his mask accentuated his heavy breathing, proving she'd at least winded him.

It wasn't enough, though. He still had that easy gait, and he was closing the precious few feet that remained between them. His hands hung free at his sides, fingers twitching. Signs of restlessness. Impending action. Whatever he had planned, it was going to hurt. A lot.

Fern closed her eyes and slumped against the glass, resting her clothed shoulder against the mirrored surface. She knew what she had to do, but the dread of that other world made her resist the impulse to just reach out and touch the glass. She'd chosen fingerless gloves, so it would be easy. No need to shed layers to get to skin. She could just turn her head and let her face brush the glass. There was no way to know what waited on the other side, though. And this man – this horrible stranger – would see. He would know. Oh, god. Her options had dwindled to probable death vs. _certain_ death. She looked again at those restless fingers, and she tracked the shivering impulses up the massive arm to the masked face of her hunter. His eyebrows had drawn into a much more focused expression than he wore when he first climbed out of the sewer, but his eyes held a fiendish twinkle.

That twinkle decided her. Fern squeezed her eyes shut again, clenched her teeth. She could see a broken body in another alley. One of the few teens who hadn't turned to prostitution – yet. She'd followed all the unspoken rules. She covered her skin. Didn't wander away from the group. But Fern still found her dead, naked body with blood oozing from between her legs into the gutters with the rest of the city's waste. It wasn't the first dead body she found, but it left the greatest impression. It was horrific. Bruises and broken skin left her face only partially recognizable, and knife wounds followed lines her attacker had left in his desperation to remove her clothes. There was more. Fern tried not to think about it. An ordinary man did that. An ordinary citizen. This masked man must be capable of so much worse.

Her face was close enough to the glass now that her breath was blowing back in her face. All she had to do was turn a little more…

"What wonderful speed!" the man said, drawing ever nearer. He was louder now, either because the chase excited him or he couldn't control his volume for the same reasons Fern couldn't catch her breath. It almost sounded like he was mocking her. "If only your sense of direction could match it." Definitely mocking. "Unfortunately, this must be the end of it. I apologize for the inconvenience." He paused, and for a minute the glass walls resonated with his mechanical breaths. "But Gotham is not ready to know me. Yet."

Fern forced herself to stand a little straighter against the mirror, breathed deep breaths and kept her eyes closed.

"Come here," the man drawled in a slightly quieter voice. "There is no need for you to suffer."

Fern's eyes snapped open. Took one more deep breath. Her choice was already made. "No thank you."

She didn't wait for a reaction. Her cheek pressed against the glass at the same instant her naked fingertips rose to caress the smooth surface. And then she was on the other side.

For an instant, she was on both sides of the glass and neither. The breathless suspension created two of her where there had only ever been one, yet she was both. It all passed in the blink of an eye, and suddenly she was wholly on the other side. She blinked, fought to breathe, and immediately began to listen for bells.

As she listened, she walked, even though her legs trembled like a newborn fawn's. This little adventure would be for nothing if she returned through the same reflection. She had no way of knowing if the monster would be standing there, waiting for her.

* * *

Bane's mind was at odds with his eyes. The miracle he witnessed was not possible, and it must be some sort of trick. So he punched the glass where the little runaway had been standing only a second before, and although the window splintered easily, it revealed nothing. The girl had stood before it. And then she had not. She could almost have been a dream. And maybe he would have considered the possibility of his own mental instability, but then he saw the little cloud of condensation she'd left behind as she breathed those final, defiant words.

 _"No thank you."_

He smiled beneath his mask. Maybe Gotham had more literal ghosts than he'd expected, but they breathed, and they were rather polite.

It seemed he had more to report to Talia than he'd initially believed.

* * *

 **Notes: First of all, yes, I know. There are no true "supers" in Nolan-verse. That said, I couldn't think of a good reason Bane wouldn't kill poor little Fern upon their first introduction without a damn compelling reason. I have a few other stories on the mind, including alternate Bane/OC stories, but I really like this one so far, so hope you like it to.**

 **This will be slightly AU. I never bought into the idea of Talia and Bane just offing themselves along with Gotham. Staying to fix the issue created by Batman and the counter-rebellion is different. To plan to die in Gotham from the beginning, either they did something they are trying to repent for (which seems the antithesis of their expressed views), or Nolan maybe didn't match character motivation with plot particularly well. After all, Bane was willing to die to get Talia out of the Pit. Why would he HELP her kill herself in a different sort of pit on the other side of the world? I just don't agree. But, well, that's what fanfiction is for, right?**

 _ **Martyr's Crown**_ **fans: I haven't given up! I actually have the next chapter about half-way written, but it's a big one. I will return to the wonderful world of Marvel in the next week or two.  
**

 **Reviews are life. Make Bane proud. Feed the starving** **authors.**


	2. Delivery Girl Blues

Chapter 2: Delivery Girl Blues

Bane marched slowly up to Talia – or _Miranda Tate's_ – back door. The tidy little townhome was everything a rich Gothamite expected in a residence. Quiet. Secure. Dripping with amenities to soften the few rough edges of life all men must face, regardless of status. It was comfortable. And designed for an entirely different shape of man. Bane felt too large in this space, even though he had yet to actually move inside the door. The steps connecting the street with the door were cut low and long – perfect for formal shoes and prim, tight steps. Each of his strides consumed three of them. The wrought iron railing, forced into such elegant swirls, rattled as he moved up. Apparently, Gotham could transform even iron into a flimsy excuse for stability. Everything around him felt fragile. Ready to break. And he so desperately wanted to crush it.

But he knocked gently on the heavy, wooden door, and his rage abated to a low simmer as the dark shadow of his precious girl appeared behind the leaded glass. The locks all fell away, and the door swung in. He followed through without hesitation. Talia stood waiting for him, dressed comfortably in a heavy robe, the day's requisite mask of cosmetics scrubbed away. Bane had seen Miranda Tate, from time to time, in the newspapers his men brought from the city above, but he was happy he did not have to see her this evening. She smiled for him, softly, and he returned the expression.

"I did not expect to see _you_ tonight, dear friend," she said. Turning, she led him deeper into the luxurious interior of her disguise. Bane followed willingly to a warm living space, nestled at the heart of the first floor, windowless and secure. A fire burned there, and Bane could see the nest Talia had made for herself on the floor before it. No plush bed or silken sheets could ever replace the comfort of a steady blaze. Talia sat on a low couch, and Bane moved to lean against the hearth, watching the leaping flames absently as he formulated his report. "Were your men busy this evening?"

They had not seen each other in months. He had far too many responsibilities to leave for a simple report every week or so. Reigning in his men, managing the extra hands they pulled off the streets, reviewing the blueprints and plans again and again and again… But that was all changing. Now. As the final pieces moved into position.

"There are so few excuses to visit you, my dear," he said lightly. "How could I surrender such a pleasure? All is going to plan."

"Good." Talia rose and came to stand beside him, studying his face in profile until he turned to meet her gaze. "And while I am more than pleased to see you again as well, I cannot help wondering why such… pleasant news drives you so deep into your thoughts."

He acknowledged her gentle command by closing his eyes. His head automatically angled towards her. She was a better source of light and warmth than the fire blazing before them.

The hand he leaned on slowly clenched into a fist, and he opened his eyes to meet her unfaltering gaze. "I met a djinn on my way to your door this evening."

Talia only looked at him. Puzzled, wary, but willing to wait for his explanation.

His sigh rattled in his mask. The initial annoyance hadn't left him, but the little ghost pulled on his hunter's instinct. As part of the League of Shadows, he encountered many things regular men would never understand, let alone believe in. Even his precious Talia was beyond belief in so, so many ways. This strange creature has captured his attention. He would allow Talia to determine if there was a threat, but he wanted permission to pursue, regardless.

So, he told Talia everything, just as he always had. He noted the details. How the little runner's gait and voice betrayed femininity, but the sparse streetlights and dark clothes prevented a positive identification. How she froze at the edge of the shadows as he emerged from the sewers, and his decision to hunt down a potential witness. He described the way she leaned into the glass, politely refused his promise of a quick death, and vanished as her fingers met the window.

That gesture convinced him she was somehow using the window. He was no fool. She ran for her life. If she could leave at any point during her mad sprint, she would have. He had questions, and they burned in his chest like righteous fire.

Talia seemed to understand. Her eyes clouded with thought, but Bane trusted her enough to know she was not questioning his fitness to lead. After all, she had passed through the shadows of the League beside him. She turned away, however, and went to a laptop set along a buffet on the far wall. Bemused, Bane followed. Her quick fingers brought up feeds from her security cameras, and his brows lifted. He had chased the girl a number of blocks. Right past the abode of Miranda Tate. If she passed close enough to the front gate, his ghost might have been caught on camera.

For a moment, Talia skimmed through the footage, jumping between time stamps as the streetlights onscreen flickered on, traffic rushed by, and the pedestrians gradually thinned away. Then a burst of isolated action, and the screen froze. Captured in perfect clarity, neatly illuminated by Miranda Tate's front lights, was Bane's little ghost. She wasn't glancing over her shoulder, losing momentum like an amateur, but the image preserved a perfect profile. Her eyes were fixed ahead, and her small black hat hid her hair very well.

It wasn't much, but it might be enough to identify the girl.

"I will see what I can find with this," Talia murmured, scrutinizing the girl's face. Smirking, she glanced over her shoulder at Bane, and he found he'd come to lean over her, inadvertently trapping her between his arms. She didn't seem to mind, and neither did he. "Maybe I can put a name to your elusive djinn, old friend."

Bane smiled, sharp and eager. "Shall I take that as permission to go on the hunt, my dear?"

"Not just yet." Her hand wandered to the side of his mask, and he leaned into the contact. She gently stroked the straps as her expression grew more focused. "Let me find out more first. If there was really no trick to her disappearance, then we will have to deal with her. A girl who walks through mirrors may not need a bridge to come and go from this city." Her fingers stilled, and Bane's eyes settled on the monitor, on the face of his new target. Talia withdrew, and he gave her space to step away and retrieve a print-out of the picture onscreen.

She handed it to him, and met his eyes as she said, "I will not be hasty. A djinn is as likely to bring gifts as deliver a curse. And this could be a great gift, indeed."

* * *

Fern wasn't sure whether to run or creep as she wound through the streets of the Other. Her gut said to run, but her memory emphasized the need for silence, especially considering the fact that she was entirely unarmed. Since she had no intention of jumping through a mirror that evening, she had not prepared. When she'd been a little more desperate, and made trips through the mirror more often, she had a bag of flour she kept tied to her belt. It wasn't a weapon, but it helped her see the invisible before it struck. That was an important tool. And she didn't have it. She was blind to the mirror world's threats, and it left her shaking anxiously in the wake of her sprinting adrenaline rush. Her ears strained for even a whisper of sound. Any second, she expected to hear little bells and wind chimes approaching.

When could she leave? Had she put enough distance between herself and the big man? Her eyes hopped from mirror to mirror. Reflective surfaces always matched between worlds, like doorways matched between connected rooms. And the general shape of things echoed her reality, but nothing else felt the same. The Other had no night. It didn't even have a proper day, for that matter. The sky held a smoggy, pale yellow light that turned the dull city into a shadow-less hell. No colors painted the walls. Everything existed in a kind of half-formed sandiness. Dun towers. Dun streets. Beige trees, and a white haze floating in a dead, windless atmosphere. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Fern, in her dark clothing, was the most colorful thing in the city.

A few times, she could've sworn she heard chimes in the distance. Each distant ring, imaginary or not, set her teeth on edge and made her feet move faster. In the end, she couldn't stand it. Instead of following her route home, as planned, she went three blocks east and called it a day. She pressed her hand to another window and was back in Gotham.

The cold air flooded her lungs, and her knees went out. Boneless, she slumped to the filthy street. A bit of lingering fear helped her crawl away from the gleaming window and into the secluded darkness of an alley, but that was all she could manage. If not for shock, she knew she'd be sobbing helplessly. As it was, she couldn't stop her brain from spinning the same horrible revelation over and over in her mind.

 _He saw me. He saw me. He saw me. He saw me. He saw me. He saw me._

All her life, she fought to remain invisible. It was necessary. It kept her safe. But now her luck had run its course. And it was so much worse than it could've been. Being chased by a Gotham psycho in a mask was bad luck. Letting that same masked man witness her little disappearing trick was a death sentence. She'd gotten herself noticed. Noticed in ways no one, no matter how disinterested could forget. She was more than an unfortunate street kid in the eyes of her attacker. She was a question. Maybe even a threat, in his mind. Would he tell others?

His confident strength haunted her. His easy swagger. His _size_. He was comfortable in her city, and he was clearly more than capable of handling loose ends. What was he? Why couldn't he just give up after the first few blocks? How would he begin his hunt?

She spent the night on the street. It didn't feel safe anywhere, but exposure gave her anonymity. She'd go back to Jack's in the morning, when she'd rallied. When she was ready to come up with a new plan. When she stopped fucking shaking.

* * *

"You got in… early… today."

"I did."

With her hair still wet from the shower, Fern popped onto one of Jack's barstools and began to push herself in leisurely circles. It made her look playful. Maybe it was fun, too. But that wasn't why she spun. She felt fidgety. Her frantic energy hadn't drained, and although she met the light of dawn with more clarity and less panic, she still felt that nervous fission crackling in her veins. That was good, though. She had to pay more attention to her surroundings. Apparently, even manholes represented a threat now.

Not a surprise, seeing as how 'man' was in the name.

Smiling at her private joke, she met Jack's eye across the bar briefly as she turned. "I'm fine," she said. "Really."

Jack only rolled his eyes and went back to work. After so many years, he'd given up trying to crack her shell. She let him and Miguel as close as she let anyone, and they'd eventually settled for that. It didn't mean they didn't push from time to time, but only when they thought it was important. They took their cue from Fern in their relationship with her. That didn't mean they fully accepted it. Miguel understood better than Jack. Fern knew the bar's owner still hoped for a day she would sit down with him and share her life story over a warm meal and a row of shots. She let him cling to that delusion. It did no harm.

"Are you up for deliveries?"

Still spinning, she fixed her gaze on Jack, snapping her head around like ballerina to keep her glare locked in place. "That is a stupid question."

And it was. She made deliveries in the rain when she had the flu. After wiping out on the ice last winter, she still hobbled around to drop off food with a twisted ankle. A rough night would never get between her and a day of work. She wouldn't let it. And Jack knew that. He was just trying to get the story out of her.

He backed down. Fast. "Okay, okay. Thought you would be, but," he shrugged, "you never know." He pulled a list of addresses out of the register. "Here are today's pre-orders. First one's due in an hour. Miguel's working on the soups, and he'll have the first five sets ready to go by twenty til."

"Fantastic." Fern kicked off against the scuffed underside of the bar, launching herself into five more rapid turns. "Thank you."

Thirty minutes later, she was all packed up and on her way. Fortunately, the first few deliveries were local. All close by in a small office district about five blocks away. Fern could walk that far without the food getting cold in her insulated bag.

Even more fortunately, the deliveries were in the opposite direction of her encounter with the giant shadow the night before. She would not be heading that way without two things: her bike, and a new, full-face helmet. After her early deliveries, she ducked into a bike shop and replaced her poor, shattered headgear. Bruce Wayne made her life difficult, and he didn't even know her name. How much worse would this new stranger make things? Fern shuddered, forked over the cash and jammed the helmet over her head, giving exactly zero shits about the weird looks she got on her walk back. Better unusual than exposed.

Miguel had the next batch ready when she returned, and this time she set off on her bike. She used the long list of waiting lunch orders as an excuse, claiming she needed the speed, but the truth was that she was trying to turn the day into the opposite of her evening's encounter. The helmet hid her face. The bike kept her from lingering and witnessing things she should not. It also let her escape without caving to her body's demand for oxygen and rest.

Most importantly, her old flour pouch stayed fastened by her hip.

* * *

Bane trusted none of his men to the extent he relied on Barsad. The mercenary didn't take that for granted. He was not the first man to stand as Bane's lieutenant, but with caution, he may survive long enough to be the last. Most of his duties kept him below ground, being in the spaces Bane could not. After all, although the shadows belonged to the monster from the Pit, the man could not stand in each and every one of them. So Barsad handled the day to day complexities of equipping, feeding, and organizing an army. He also filled the gaps in Bane's plans that demanded a … more common appearance. Although standing next to Bane could leave any man doubting his own strength, Barsad was confident in his own power. But that power was not so obvious as his leader's, and unlike Bane, Barsad could shed his identifying regalia to infiltrate and spy upon the enemy at will.

And so he did. Bane's standards for even basic intelligence reports were too high for most to satisfy, which was why Barsad found himself sitting in a bar, three days before the planned hit on Gotham's stock market, very slowly sipping a flat beer. He'd taken up a position in the corner hours ago and allowed himself to be forgotten. Since there was no table service, the owner didn't seem to care how long his guests lingered in his establishment. Most wandered back to the bar from time to time, but no one kept a running tally.

In his denim jacket and roughened slacks, Barsad could be any blue collar worker. He became more or less invisible as time wore on. The men around him grumbled about work, politics, and the cost of rent. Barsad gave them half his attention. The other cleaved to the television screen above the bar. Reception in the sewers wasn't always the best, and Bane wanted to know the atmosphere of the city above. Launching an attack when the city was already on edge would only hinder his goals. Barsad went above to check the city's pulse. Liquor loosened tongues, and the interaction between the news and Gotham's lower classes gave him the most accurate information for Bane.

Today, Gotham's pulse was steady.

Taking another sip from his drink, for appearances' sake, he began planning his exit. He would wait for a group to leave. Several men were just about to finish the soup and sandwiches they'd ordered with their drinks, and if he followed in their wake, he wouldn't draw any attention at all. Just as Bane instructed.

As he thought, a very small motorcycle pulled up outside the front doors. The rider dismounted, leaving the vehicle on the sidewalk, and Barsad's interest was piqued as the owner took interest.

The man behind the bar shouted when the rider entered his domain.

"Girl! You're blocking traffic. How are customers supposed to get in here around your big-ass bike?"

"Boy…" the rider replied, removing her helmet, "my small-ass bike is blocking your make-believe customers because you told me you had rush orders."

She shook her hair free, and suddenly the newscasters on the television mattered much less. Barsad had a sniper's eye, and he knew the rider's profile immediately.

Roughly a week ago, Bane handed him a photo of a young woman taken from a security camera. "Watch for her," he had said. "But do not engage." Over the next few days, the orders shifted from "watch" to "look for." The usual tools they used to identify problematic witnesses had not helped. Even the Demon Head could find no record of this little ghost. The image was the only proof she existed at all. Barsad indulged in a quiet smile, which he hid behind his glass, as his target unintentionally fed him information. Although he'd learned to enjoy the hunt, it always amused him when serendipity dropped victims into his lap.

She was not what he'd expected. Her face was young, but without the dark hat covering so much, he could tell she was older than he first assumed. Early, maybe even mid-twenties. Small, but without the camera's blur, and in much better-fitting clothing, he could see she was indeed an adult, not a gangly teenager. Her vivid blue hair surprised him. It explained the hat, though. It was so readily identifiable. What a shame all her precautions were for nothing.

The man behind the bar gave up the argument and hoisted two handfuls of paper bags across to his delivery girl. "Will you be home for dinner?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "I've decided to starve, Jack."

Sniffing, her friend turned away to fiddle with the cash register. "I don't like to assume."

This time, the girl actually grinned at him. "Bullshit." Grabbing the takeout orders, she backed out, kicking the door open so she could get through without squashing her cargo. "See you soon."

The door closed behind her, and the man shook his head. "You're incorrigible," he muttered, even though she was well out of earshot.

Just as Barsad stood to leave, another man came through the kitchen door, looking around like he was searching for someone.

"Did I hear Fern?"

The barman shrugged. "Yeah. She's back out now."

"Like the wind. Will she have time to eat before she finishes the evening runs?"

"She said she'd be back for dinner."

Groaning, the man from the kitchen approached the register, likely looking at the list of future deliveries. "You would know better than her. And, judging by this, I will need to leave some soup upstairs. She can eat before she sleeps." He gave the barman a peck on the cheek. "She would die of hunger if I did not fix things."

"I seriously doubt that."

"Shut-up and let me feel motherly."

The man from the kitchen went back to work, and Barsad slipped out a little earlier than planned. No one paid him any mind anyway. His news couldn't wait for the men to finish their meals. The city roared around him, and the overcast skies dulled the people's mood, but Barsad found it was really a very nice day. Although his face remained stoic, he felt a warm sense of accomplishment. Not only did he see the little ghost, an unplanned stroke of luck, but he could give Bane her home address. Best of all, he could give their leader her name.

As the shadow of the sewers fell over him, he finally indulged in another smile. Poor Fern. She would not be making deliveries for very much longer.

* * *

Fern stumbled into The Green Light, bone tired and ready for sleep. The day brought lots of orders, which meant lots of tips, so she wasn't complaining, but she was ready to be done. Especially after the restless sleep she'd endured since her encounter in the alley. Every time she went out, she kept her eyes trained on the shadows, just waiting for a monster to step out and make a grab for her. Wearing the helmet all the time took its toll as well. The thing weighed a ton. Much heavier than her open-faced gear. After days of constant wear, her neck ached, and her eyes had to strain to see through the dark visor after the sun set. With these extra stresses during the day, and insufficient rest at night, she felt ready to snap. It was like living on the street all over again.

No, she shook her head. It wasn't really that bad. But she had to stay vigilant, or everything she'd worked so hard for would come crashing down around her ears.

Just as she stepped inside and pulled her helmet off, Miguel came rushing out of the kitchen with _another_ delivery bag. Fern didn't even try to disguise her moan.

"Really?" she asked.

Miguel dropped the bag into her unwilling arms, shoved her helmet back on her head, and spun her about face. "Really. And get your best smile ready. This is a _big_ customer."

As her second boss all but manhandled her out the door, she huffed. "Who? Where am I going?"

"Ever heard of Miranda Tate?"

A tiny fission of energy returned to Fern's weary muscles. Of course she'd heard of her. Tate had connections. Lots and lots of very rich connections. If she liked Miguel's food, then this could mean a big step up for The Green Light. Since Fern hitched her wagon to Jack's star, that meant good things for her, too. Even if they weren't close, the three employees of The Green Light were a good team.

"Yeah."

"Well, apparently the lady is hungry after a long day dealing with assholes in business suits, so you drive like you're being chased by the devil and give her a very pretty thank you, even if she's tired, grumpy, and says she's a Flat Earther. Yes?"

Fern tucked the bag in her insulated saddle pouch and tossed Miguel a salute as she swung aboard.

"There isn't time for you to change, is there?" Miguel murmured, only half to himself. Shaking his head, he eyed her utilitarian wardrobe anxiously. "No. There is not time."

"I doubt she's going to be offended by the fact her delivery person isn't in formalwear, Miguel."

"You never know, you never know."

Rolling her eyes and giggling, Fern kick started her bike. "I do know, actually!" Happy to have the last word, she zoomed off to the address Miguel had left clipped to the bag. It was terribly close to the alley where the man in the mask had emerged. A quick delivery wouldn't mean her doom, though. And she wouldn't be loitering around, anyway. It was safe. It was all perfectly safe.

She'd be fine.

The day's angry clouds had boiled over into more rain earlier that afternoon, and even in the nicer parts of Gotham, the potholes and gutters overflowed. Fern wove between the deepest pits, hoping to arrive with nothing more than a fine spray of muddy specks soiling her clothes. Appearances mattered, and no one wanted a dirty delivery driver handing over their food. It was more than unprofessional. It was unsanitary. She rumbled to a stop just outside of Tate's home, parking on the sidewalk in order to avoid the small lake just below the curb. Headlights illuminated the scene as Fern lifted her chin to unclip her helmet. She had just pulled it off her head when a car pulled up, coming to an abrupt stop in the lake she'd been so careful to avoid.

A wall of muddy street water engulfed her. It poured into her mouth, ears, and eyes, so for a moment all she could do was shake and rub at her face in a desperate attempt to clear her vision, madly spitting all the while. A car door slammed shut, and Fern looked up to find none other than Ms. Miranda Tate, in the flesh. The woman stood by her car, one hand still on the handle, the other pressed over her mouth in shocked horror. Fern glanced down at herself, expecting disaster. She found it. Street water was nasty enough, but this particular puddle had been a muddy one. Brown streaks and grainy patches of filth washed down her jeans. She could feel the water in her jacket weighing her down, and the bedraggled strand of murky blue hair stuck just under her eye confirmed that she was a really a true, thorough, honest mess – from head to toe.

Fuck.

Tate gasped and quickly stepped to Fern's side. Hoping to salvage the situation, Fern tried wiping her saddle pouch clean, praying all the while that it was as waterproof as it was supposed to be. Obviously she couldn't hand Ms. Tate the bag – not in her state – but maybe if she still got a hot meal after all this, she wouldn't hold the embarrassment against The Green Light.

"I am so sorry!" Tate said, reaching out to take Fern's elbow as she dismounted from her bike. "I was in such a rush. It's my fault. I simply wasn't paying attention. Are you alright?"

"Oh," Fern tried to brush off her concern, desperately trying to defuse the situation, "it's no problem. I've had worse."

Tate shook her head. She wasn't having it. "If you'd parked on the street I might have hit you."

So much for defusal. Laughing awkwardly, Fern tried again. "You wouldn't have been the first."

She opened the protective, insulated bag, and happily discovered the paper delivery sack remained bone dry. With a sweeping bow, she indicated the bag was Tate's to take. "I'd hand it to you personally, but I don't think mud makes a very good condiment."

Tate accepted the offer graciously – thank god – but she wasn't finished with Fern.

Transferring the food to her left hand, she held out her right for Fern to shake, which she did, all too aware of how clammy her palms must feel.

"Miranda Tate," she said, smiling wide enough to show a few pearly teeth. "And what's your name?"

Her breath stuck in her throat, but she swallowed it back down, remembering Miguel's instructions as she hurried to smile back at one of Gotham's most powerful individuals. "Fern."

"Well, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, even if I do seem to have made a rather poor first impression." Tate looked her over and winced. When her eyes rose back to meet Fern's, they held alarmingly firm conviction. "Please, come inside."

Oh dear. So much for a quick, easy delivery.

"It's really no problem –"

"Please?"

"I should probably get back…"

"I insist."

And there it was. The patron's order. Tate said it sweetly, and she wore a smile through the entire conversation, but Fern knew better than to deny a person with her kind of power. The invitation was more than just a polite courtesy. The woman wouldn't be happy until Fern submitted to whatever apologetic gesture Tate was planning.

Tate was hardly the first person to invite her in. Lots of people tried. They wanted Fern to step out of the rain while they grabbed their card, or to warm up for a minute during the heavy snowstorms that prompted so many customers to order soup. Most had perfectly innocent intentions. But some, Fern knew, did not, and no matter how long she practiced reading people's faces, there was no way to tell for certain if someone was going to hurt you until you felt the knife in your back. If Miranda Tate had been a man, Fern would've turned her down, no matter how insistent. Entering an enclosed space with a male meant danger. It was just that simple. But Miranda Tate was a woman. And she seemed genuinely concerned. Not to mention the impact Fern's actions would have on Jack and Miguel. She hesitated, but not for long.

Nervously turning her helmet over in her hands, she nodded. "O-okay."

"Wonderful, thank you," Tate said, beaming. "This way."

Wet and filthy, Fern drifted after one of Gotham's most beautiful glitterati, up the front steps, through the massive wooden door, and into a marble-paved entryway. Fern wanted to flinch away from her own feet as her clothes released a slow, steady rain of gutter water onto the gleaming floor.

"You're so shy," Tate teased in a voice only a few decibels above a whisper. She worked her fingers under Fern's collar and divested her of her jacket before her guest could protest. "You're perfectly safe here. I promise." She was all smiles and twinkling eyes, like she was sharing an inside joke, or inviting Fern close enough to share one.

The only people with Miranda Tate's level of charm in Fern's usual circles were typically drug dealers or pimps. Effortless seducers who pulled you under before you even realized you were approaching a lake. They were people to avoid, but Miranda Tate was not like them. Was she? She had a reputation as a humanitarian, as one of the few elite who genuinely gave a shit. It threw Fern very far off her game. Between the woman's friendliness and wealth, she just felt trapped. How was she going to extricate herself without causing offence? Was that even possible? The more time she spent in the woman's presence, the less faith she had in her own power to escape.

It wasn't like Tate was going to give her an opportunity, anyway.

Tate's hand wrapped around her elbow, drawing her into a friendly embrace, leading her towards the stairs. "I have a guest suite where you can clean up. Please, at least take a shower. Get that mud off."

"I'm really alright."

"It's the least I can do. I feel terrible."

Every argument fell flat, if it cleared Fern's lips at all. There was no choice here. She would be taking a shower. At least Tate respected her privacy. At the door of the guest room, she pulled away to offer a quick tour.

"The bathroom is through there. You'll find everything you need – towels, soap. But if you need anything else please let me know."

Fern was overwhelmed. She glanced around helplessly. Everything in that room cost more than she'd make in a month. "This is all more than enough. Thank you."

With a last smile, Tate backed out and closed the door, leaving her unwilling guest alone to bathe. It took Fern more than a few minutes to work up the nerve to move to the bathroom, though. There weren't many mirrored surfaces, as she'd feared there might be, and she determined she wouldn't transport herself into the Other naked. Unless she touched the actual mirror or the slivery pull fixed on the shower's frosted glass door. She chewed her bottom lip restlessly, still casting her eye around the room for a plausible excuse to get out of her predicament.

 _I'm so sorry, Ms. Tate, but I'm allergic to water._

 _No baths this week. It's a religious thing._

 _I have a terribly contagious case of Being Poor._

She shook her head firmly and seized the hem of her shirt.

"Just get it over with," she hissed to herself.

With a few quick tugs and kicks, she was free. But then she looked at her clothes, scattered all over the floor, and felt horribly self-conscious. Even though there were two doors between her and the elegant homeowner, Fern couldn't help feeling like Tate would just magically know that she had, however temporarily, made a mess. So she gathered everything, folded it, and set the finished pile on the side of the creamy marble sink. Then she wrapped a hand towel over her fingers and climbed into the shower. It too was incredibly fancy. Instead of a single showerhead crusted over from years of calcification, the drops fell from the ceiling like rain.

Fern hated it.

Nudity always left her uneasy. Living on the street taught her a lot of things, but the first lesson she almost learned the hard way was that bare skin drew the bad kind of attention. She hardly ever fully bathed before she rented out her own space with her own locks on the door. Shivering under the spray in a stranger's home felt unnatural. The sooner she got the mud out of her hair, the better.

When she turned off the water and peeked around the curtain, however, she found herself facing a new problem. Her clothes were missing. In their place sat a simple, black silk robe. It sat there like an inky black pool, cascading over the marble countertop. It oozed class, elegance, and something far more dangerous. Fern would almost rather face whatever waited outside the bathroom door in the plush white towel.

Almost.

No matter how much she disliked it, the robe would do a much better job covering her. She suspected, as she slipped the garment over her arms, that this was Ms. Tate's personal possession. It was clearly tailored, but not for anyone with Fern's measurements. She risked a glance in the mirror as she tied the belt and flinched away from her reflection. Maybe a woman like Miranda Tate could pull off something like this. Fern just looked small, tired, and frightened. She fought to school her features into something more mature, or at least stony, but everything rose to the surface, no matter how many times she tamped it down. Her hands ran anxious laps over the smooth fabric shielding her hips, and Fern couldn't quite shake the unsettling sensation that she was wearing nothing at all.

It took her even longer to leave the bathroom than it had to enter it. She hoped to find her clothes lying on the bed, or maybe left on the dresser, but she had no such luck. Everything was exactly as she'd left it. For a few minutes, she made up more excuses to linger in the guest suite. Maybe someone was coming back with her things after trying to knock the worst of the mud off? Nothing was impossible. But she remained alone, and she had to go out sometime.

Cracking the door open, she popped her head out and looked both ways down the hall, swallowing a lump in her throat.

"Hello?"

From downstairs, she could just barely hear Tate call. "Down here, Fern."

The house was dark and quiet. How had she not noticed how few lights were on as they climbed up the stairs? Or how the deep carpet in the hall swallowed her steps? No staff bustled around. Apart from the two women, the house seemed entirely empty. No headlights cut through the windows. No motors interrupted the stillness. It felt like they'd left the city entirely. Silence pressed in, wrapping her in the same illusion of protection the robe offered.

Fern moved cautiously down the stairs, accompanied by the painfully vulnerable sound of her bare feet on marble. If she hadn't felt naked before, she certainly did now. Her hands wove almost unconsciously into the robe's fabric, tugging it tighter around her neck and across her chest. A chill permeated the air. Normal for Gotham at that time of year. _Normally_ , however, Fern would be wearing more clothes, and her body trembled with little involuntary shivers as the cold settled in her wet hair, her damp skin.

She found Miranda Tate waiting on a long couch in front of a fire. It looked cozy, and a little of the frigid tension in Fern's shoulders melted as the warmth rolled out to greet her. Tate stood at her entrance, approaching quickly to welcome her guest and ensure all was up to her impeccable standards.

She smoothed Fern's hair behind her ear, gently cupping her face. "You look so much better without the mud." Tate's hand traced her jaw as Tate stepped away. "I bet you clean up nicely."

Fern followed her to the couch, happy to be nearer to the heat. Tate's hand brushed over her knee, straightening the hem of the black silk robe as she gave it a critical eye. "I can see how uncomfortable you are," she said, tone light, teasing, inviting. "I'm sorry for not asking first, but I couldn't bring myself to just let you put those wet things back on when you just cleaned up. It's a cold night. I assumed you didn't have time for me to wash them, so I put them in the dryer. They'll be ready shortly."

"Thank you." Fern watched the fire, clinging to the familiarity. It didn't matter where sparks caught – a flame was always a flame, be it in a metal waste can or a millionaire's hearth. The link soothed her, eased the trapped sensation that had haunted her from her first moment in Ms. Tate's abode.

Echoing Fern's own relaxed guard, Tate leaned back, into the couch, with her arm draped along the backrest, nearly close enough to touch. "Tell me about yourself, Fern," she said. "What is life like, on that bike of yours, flying around Gotham every day?" Her accent was enchanting, and although she probably meant well, Fern knew her guard should not drop any lower than she'd already suffered it to fall.

"You make it sound very romantic," she replied, smirking a little to offset any potential insult her fairly obvious diversion may leave.

Rather than taking offense, however, Miranda Tate only nodded, slowly absorbing her answer. "It is very easy to covet what you do not have. I imagine you must feel very free. Unfettered. That is not a pleasure money can buy."

The conversation wasn't going into the intensely personal direction Fern had feared. Tate didn't press for answers. She didn't demand Fern's life story in exchange for her interest. The invitation lingered, of course, but she did not insist. Without a pressure to resist, Fern wasn't sure how to reply, whether she could even have a real discussion. So much of her life was defined by what she avoided, it was hard to engage. But… there was no threat here to push against, was there? She still wasn't entirely comfortable, not in the robe, in a rich woman's house, alone with a stranger. None of that seemed to matter so much, not just then. Her host's charm must be working on her.

"I guess that's true. In some ways."

Tate was watching her now, and Fern picked over her words carefully.

"I honestly don't even know enough about your life to try imagining why you'd covet mine."

With an easy smile, Tate looked back at the fire. "Every freedom comes with its own burden. Every privilege is a responsibility. I try to use everything given to me with consideration. My money. My connections. This house." She let her eyes move about the room as she spoke, but Fern's stayed fixed on her face. It was such a strangely serious topic to share with a delivery girl. "Everyone seeks to escape something, Fern. You just have to figure out what freedoms are worth giving up." Her gaze snapped back to Fern's. "Tell me: would you give up your days roving around the city for my life? For wealth, status, security?"

Fern didn't even have to think about it. There were many things she wished she'd had, especially as a child, advantages she'd never enjoyed. A silver spoon had never been one of them. She smiled. "No."

A sharper smile cut over Tate's face, and Fern knew that she'd somehow pleased her. "Smart." Then, like she had the answers she'd been digging for, she stood, brushing invisible wrinkles from her clothes and smoothing her hands over her hair. "Now, I bet your clothes are dry. Let me get them for you. I'll just bring them back up to the guest room, okay?"

Fern stood, too, checking to make sure the robe was behaving itself. Everything was awkward again, and she felt naked and afraid in this big, quiet house with a woman she didn't really know. "Okay. Thank you."

Tate touched her arm, imparting a quick, physical spark of warmth through the robe's thin sleeve. "You're very welcome."

* * *

The girl dressed quickly and left without more than the mandatory niceties. She didn't linger or press for favors. Dignity, grace, self sufficiency. Talia smiled at the memory of the girl's stiff shoulders and hesitant footsteps as she crept into the room, stripped of her comfort and confidence. She'd clearly sensed a threat, even if she couldn't put her finger on its source. She had good instincts. Good instincts and an honest soul.

It was too early to say if she would pose a threat once they isolated the city, but Talia saw potential in those steady grey eyes, and she couldn't leave it unexplored. As she closed the door behind her unfortunate visitor, she came to a decision.

"I like her," she said, addressing the shadows near the kitchen.

The hearth called to her, and she moved back to the couch as her oldest friend stepped out from the darkness to join the conversation. "There is a cold fire banked in her heart, but she hides it well." A fire strong enough to survive Gotham, likely on the streets, if her occupation and lack of paper trail were any indication. With the right words, the right timing, the League could posses the little djinn: body, mind, and soul. It was a shame she had not met Fern years earlier. Maybe then she could have taken her time. The girl seemed adverse to male company, a habit that likely saved her many painful encounters. A woman could have worn down her guard more quickly. But now she must be handled differently, by different hands, or their great work could suffer. There was no time for a slow seduction. She would have to leave this to her man of action.

"There was no sign of tampering," Bane said. He didn't have to clarify. They both knew what he was referring to. A particular window in a particular dead end. "Her feat was genuine."

"I believe you," Talia assured him. "And I agree that certain measures must be taken. But I would like you to treat this one carefully. Do not throw out a gemstone simply because it is uncut."

"Of course. But we will be very busy in the coming days."

Again, this was something Talia had expected. Bane simply wanted clearer instructions. Talia would give them to him. "Take her before you close off the city. She poses no threat before the bridges fall. Once you have the city, you may continue building the League's future. This girl will be yours. A challenging little gift. Shape her carefully."

The shadows moved, and she turned around to call after Gotham's reckoning with a final piece of advice. "Handle this prize with care, brother. Rebuild what you break."

* * *

 **A/N: Whoa, this chapter's even longer than the last one! Sorry, not much of Bane, but that will be remedied in dramatic fashion over the next few chapters.**

 **The unofficially official theme song for this fic is "Cirice" by Ghost. Back-up themes include "Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea" by MISSIO, and "Square Hammer" by Ghost.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Sophie: Thankies much! We'll get into the how's and why's of Fern's backstory throughout this little epic, no worries. Bane _sort of_ had his second encounter with Fern in this chapter, but we'll see how they interact when pitted face to face again. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed!**


	3. Hard Landing

**Chapter 3: Hard Landing**

She felt safe.

Or maybe just tired.

After weeks of restless slumber punctuated by nightmares, memories, and paranoid anxiety, her body had finally had enough. So she slipped away quickly in her warm bed, safe behind locked doors that kept out shadows and men in masks. Muscles slowly unwound to an almost liquid state, bringing the sleep she'd been craving. And it was dreamless. Women in the bar often talked about going to a spa, having their nails done, and taking long soaks in a deep bath. Fern's escape was uninterrupted sleep. She enjoyed it so rarely.

As a child, she had to conform to her mother's erratic schedule and demands. Once she struck out on her own, she had to essentially sleep with one eye open. When she first slept on the street, she made the mistake of snoozing well into the morning, and she woke with a stranger's head and hands under her tarp, stealing her supplies.

Sometimes, living with Jack and Miguel felt like a pleasant fantasy, one she'd wake up from with a jolt in the camp at the edge of the warehouse district. Living in the kinds of apartment she could afford by herself had only been a small step up from the street. She hadn't rested well there, either. Every time she opened her eyes and found herself in her own room, with her own bed, and her own locks, it felt like a miracle. She was thankful to the couple, for all they'd offered her, even if she didn't always express it very well.

She had to admit, companionship, risky as it could be, did come with rewards. Going to sleep, secure in the knowledge that you weren't alone, was a priceless soporific.

Fern blinked awake slowly, surprised that it was still dark out, and for a moment she didn't know why. She was a relatively light sleeper, even this tired, but she rarely woke without some kind of stimulus. Then she heard the stairs creak, and she frowned. What time was it? She'd hit the sack before the boys did, and it wouldn't be the first time they stayed up, talking and drinking after hours, only to stumble upstairs drunk. Usually they made more noise, though, an embarrassing amount, to be honest. Shushing each other and giggling between quiet moans, too wrapped up in their make-out session to pause on the way from the bar to the bedroom.

Another floorboard betrayed whoever was climbing the stairs, and Fern threw her covers aside. This was wrong. The boys were never this quiet. In Fern's experience, the quieter the threat, the more dangerous it was. Hadn't the man in the mask been calm and collected? That could be him on the stairs. She could just imagine him. A hulking shadow, eyes trained on her door, moving into her space. She'd have to open her door to find out for sure, though, and that just wasn't happening.

She pulled on her coat before going on hands and knees to reach under the bed, where she kept her emergency go-bag. It had everything she'd need to start over: two changes of clothes, a folded tarp, bottled water, energy bars, and all her cash. As much as she enjoyed her new life, she still couldn't bring herself to trust it. If the squeaks in the hall were any indication, her caution had been warranted.

Holding her breath and praying it didn't squeal, she unlocked the window and gingerly hoisted the bottom frame up. As it cleared the top of her head, the door behind her rattled. The knob jostled. Lowered voices murmured in a language she didn't understand, and she swung one leg out the window.

"Hey!"

Fern's eyes snapped down to find the man shouting in the alley below. He wasn't looking her way, calling instead to someone around the corner, but he'd clearly seen her.

"Hey! Over here! She's going out the window!"

"Fuck," she muttered. She had her leg halfway back in when the door behind her gave an ominous _boom_. Alarmed cries down the hall proved Jack and Miguel were finally awake. She hoped they were alright. Even if they weren't, though, the people behind the door and the man below were clearly after _her_ , so the best thing she could do for her employers was to just get away.

How?

She couldn't leave by the door, and she couldn't just drop down from her second story window thanks to the human car alarm still shouting below. That left two routes: over or up. Her gut told her that if these guys had the alley outside covered, they might have someone on the roof. Climbing would just deliver her into another man's hands. So, she would have to get creative. She wished they'd left her a more traditional escape route. Creativity always involved a little risk. No helping it, though.

Taking a deep breath, she rocked back in the window frame. Her other foot sprang up to the sill, and with a mighty push, she propelled herself across the narrow gap between buildings and onto the opposing structure's fire escape railing. Her feet dangled low, and she swung them higher as she pulled herself up. The shouting man jumped and grunted, trying to snatch her out of the air, but he hadn't been expecting _that_ move, and Fern was faster. He remained below, bleating for backup as she climbed higher and higher. If there really was someone stationed on the roof of The Green Light, she would need to clear out and put some distance between them before they had a chance to jump the gap.

There was a new moon, and neither Jack nor the owner of the florist's next door had bothered installing lights between their buildings. Fern climbed more by feel than by sight, which was probably for the best. It meant the men gathering below would lose track of her faster, and they'd hesitate before following. Already, men hung out her window, but they hadn't practiced the jump before, and self preservation was a hell of an instinct. One tried to hop across, smacked into the fire escape below, and fell on the heads of the men in the alley. Fern smiled in satisfaction and clambered onto the roof. Immediately, she glanced over her shoulder, but no one lurked behind her. The surrounding rooftops all stood empty.

The commotion was drawing attention, though. A few lights flicked on in the apartment block across the street, and Fern heard a window open somewhere nearby. The neighbors would probably assume this was just a drunken row, but the people of Gotham always reported the little annoyances faster than major crimes. Fern wasn't the only one who valued a good night's rest.

Hopefully the attention would drive the men away. They crept in so carefully. Clearly they didn't want attention.

She didn't wait to find out how long they planned to linger. A running start was more than enough to clear the tiny alleys on her block, and once the noise of pursuit fell behind, she hurried down another fire escape. A trip through a reflective store window carried her beyond all potential hunters. For the next several blocks, she alternated between the real world and the Other, shattering any trail she might unwittingly leave. By the time the sun rose over the bay, she'd made her way to the other side of the city.

* * *

"Why did you call out?"

"She was escaping! I needed to alert –"

"You needed only to stand quietly in the shadows, and she would've jumped right into your arms."

Barsad frowned impassively at the idiot kneeling before him. The bungled job wasn't entirely the new recruit's fault, but he certainly carried the lion's share of blame. When Bane assigned the retrieval to Barsad, he chose a number of their local talent for the job, assuming one Gothamite would have insight into the mind of another. He'd miscalculated. The man was a fool, and the three he sent inside to capture the girl had alerted her to their presence before they even set to work on the door. He'd watched it all through his sniper's lens, giving commands from his superior vantage point. Instead of observing a successful mission, however, he watched his plans fall apart. All because one man yapped at their target like a nervous lap dog.

He tried following the girl on his own, but once she climbed down from the rooftops she just disappeared. Even the best sniper lost a target from time to time, but there was always some sign of them, some trail. The girl left nothing. One moment, she was going down a ladder. After that – nothing. She never appeared on the street, and he knew for a fact that she hadn't gone down in the sewers. Bane had warned him of the girl's abilities, but some small part of him had refused to believe it until she vanished. Now he understood Bane's urgency to find the little thing before the bridges went down.

The man on the floor groveled, pleading, and Barsad didn't have to turn to know his commander was approaching.

"You failed to secure our guest," Bane said, tone light as he stepped into Barsad's peripheral vision. To an outside observer, his voice betrayed no aggression. After years under Bane, Barsad knew better.

So, apparently, did the man on the floor. "I'm sorry! Sir!" Snot ran unimpeded down the failure's face. A truly sniveling idiot. "I made a mistake. It won't happen again!"

Bane nodded, rolling forward half a step closer. "No," he agreed in the same casual voice. "It won't." He seized the man by the neck, and the poor fool only had the opportunity to release a half-choked scream before his spinal column snapped in Bane's palm. Barsad didn't flinch. Didn't care. The man sealed his own fate, and of all the ways Bane might have killed him for ruining the mission, this was by far the most merciful. Besides, it wasn't anything Barsad hadn't seen before.

He stepped over the dead body to speak with his boss. Bane's forgiveness was already implied by Barsad's continued ability to breathe, but manners mattered down in the sewers, and it had been a long time since he'd failed to carry out an order so spectacularly.

"Next time I will bring her back. Do I have your permission to take non-lethal measures? A shot to the leg would slow her down, even if she does walk through mirrors."

Bane's mask crackled, maybe with a sigh or a laugh. Maybe he was just breathing.

"No." For a split second, Barsad wondered if that big hand would twine around his own throat, but then Bane turned, walking towards the table where blueprints of Wayne Tower waited. Barsad followed, critically eying the physical manifestation of their timeline. They needed to remove the threat soon. The Demon Head's orders were clear. For all that, Bane seemed surprisingly unconcerned with the fact that their prey was in the wind.

"Next time I will go myself. We will hunt together, brother, and fulfill our orders."

Bane sounded genuinely pleased, and Barsad knew the prospect of a hands-on hunt must appeal to him. After all, he liked to lead from the front, and he'd spent so much of the past few months in Gotham's sewers, away from the action. All of that was about to change.

Barsad had questions, but he did not voice them. A loyal man who asked too many questions was no safer than a traitorous idiot. Although Bane was a marvelous leader, and he turned good soldiers into great warriors, he had a magnetism that ensured he was never short of hands. So, if a good, reliable worker became a nuisance he didn't have to weigh the consequences of dispatching them with much thought. There would always be others.

"Did you handle the witnesses?"

At least one thing had gone right that evening. Barsad nodded. "They are under orders to report if the target contacts them. We have a man watching them in case they try to flee." He thought of the easy banter they had shared with the girl while he spied on them, of the cook's desire to mother the little street rat. Even weaker souls had been willing to risk the mercenaries' ire to protect someone they cared about. "Or lie."

"Good." Bane brushed aside the Wayne Tower schematics in favor of Gotham street map. His finger brushed the corner occupied by The Green Light before wandering aimlessly across the city. Really, the girl could be anywhere. A normal man would never find her in the allotted time.

"The streets are getting cold at night," Bane rumbled. His finger tapped over a bridge as his eyes narrowed. "Where, I wonder, does this city's indigent population gather before the snow falls?"

* * *

She'd never been hunted before, and she didn't know how to handle the situation. The first night was awful. The first day, too. Then she found herself wandering, paranoid and edgy, and she knew she had to focus if she wanted to survive. As her mind tried to turn every stranger's face into a glaring threat – Had she seen that man before? Was he one of the shadows from under her window? – she groped for familiarity.

Her eyes found the streetlights. Common, ugly streetlights, and because they were in Gotham, only half of them worked. The city always tried to snuff out its own illumination, in every sense of the word. No one and nothing was safe – including, apparently, the infrastructure.

Spotty as they were, though, Fern couldn't help finding them beautiful. If you knew an area well enough, the streetlights would always lead you home, because no two were exactly the same, even though they'd been mass produced in some soulless factory an eon ago. Scratches, stickers, and graffiti marked each pole. Ads for concerts months back fluttered at eye-level all over the arts district, and Gotham's teens had a time-honored tradition of scratching a heart with their and their lover's initials in the posts outside each other's residences. In the slums, so many hearts and letters dotted the paint that it was nearly scraped away altogether. Gangs painted the lights with their colors, and in areas without phone lines, the high posts made a great place for dealers to hang their shoes. If you needed an unofficial roadmap of the city, the streetlights would do in a pinch.

Fern was in a pinch.

As the sun set, and the streetlights flickered on, Fern stopped to study her surroundings. The lampposts were pitted and rough, but they didn't have many hearts and letters. Plenty of graffiti, though, and the spray paint covered more metal on the lower half of most posts than the original finish did. Not residential, then, and in an area of the city that didn't boast many tourists – or the elite. The best clue was the lack of lovers' marks. After all, most parts of Gotham hosted some kind of housing. The islands weren't big enough to allow a broad, easy distinction between commercial, industrial, and residential. Fern saw no power or waste plants towering over nearby buildings. So that left the warehouse district. She must be damn close to her old stomping grounds.

Led half by her nose and half by the streetlights, she trotted back towards the larger roads, eager to spot a street sign. Gotham was big. Even if she knew the area well, she couldn't know it perfectly. And she'd been living comfortably _away_ from the old warehouses for several years. Her old neighborhood had changed.

She looked down just in time to avoid stepping on a dead bird. She nearly fell sideways in her midair scramble to avoid it. Even as she recovered her footing, though, the poor, dead thing snared her attention. Dirty brown and white feathers – some kind of finch or sparrow. She was hardly an expert. Death must have come days ago, because its eyes were gone and the rough feathers trembled with ants and maggots.

It was just another dead bird, and god knew there were plenty of those in the city, so why did it disturb her so much? Judging by the angle of this one's head and the brownish-red smears along its feathers, it flew face first into a window. Then it plummeted to the sidewalk.

Dead before it even hit the ground.

Fern met her reflection's gaze in the shop's mirrored windows. Her eyes snapped shut almost of their own volition, and she held her breath like she was listening for the lancelots' bells. Her attention was turned inside, however, looking for internal rather than external threats. The world around her just didn't exist for the next few minutes. How long until she ended up like that bird? Broken on a mirror. Chased to its death. Food for maggots. And that was if she was lucky.

 _There's no need for you to suffer_ , the man had said. But he was clearly a man built for suffering, and Fern doubted any end at his hands would be painless.

She wouldn't escape with her eyes closed, mourning a dead bird. Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Eyes open, focused ahead. Yanking her pack's strap higher on her shoulder, she forged on. The streets never turned down a fresh resident, and they welcomed alumni back with open arms. She'd disappear into their embrace just as she had so many years before.

* * *

The smell of burning plywood and newsprint finally led her to a camp. Men, women, and a few children had pitched camp in an empty parking lot between two large warehouses. A low block of rotting office buildings shielded them from the street, limiting the chance of civilian complaints or police intervention. Fern had never slept in this particular lot, but it felt like home anyway. Homeless fashion featured looks at least five years out of date, but the primary staples – like sweatshirts, long coats, and aggressive layering – were always in vogue here. Besides, most of Gotham's homeless citizens were old enough to prefer fashion that was well beyond half a decade old, so little had changed. Fern even recognized some of the faces gathering around the fires. That gave her a little more hope about her situation.

Homelessness had always been a battle, a monster that would eat her if she didn't escape soon enough. But for all the lives it claimed, there were plenty of tough old birds who lived out half or more of their lives in the alleys and homeless shelters. Granted, they probably didn't have a masked man with the body of a titan sending killers to snatch them away while they slept.

As Fern wandered between fires, hunting for a good place to call her own, a particular face caught her eye. She did a double-take as she passed, and that second look won her the attention of her old friend. It was Booger. Alive and in the flesh.

He eyed her critically for a minute, clearly trying to figure out her game. Back when she knew him, she hadn't had money to dye her hair. The blue must be throwing him off.

"Hi, Booger. Long time no see."

His eyes widened, and he quickly swept them up and down her frame. "Fern? Little Fern? I don't believe it."

"It's me," she confirmed.

He opened his arms, and she didn't hesitate to step into his embrace. Crazy, smelly, and off-kilter he may be, but Booger would never hurt her. She squeezed him gently, careful not to take a deep breath through her nose, but happy for hug all the same.

"You've shrunk."

He barked a laugh. "You _grew_." Holding her out at arm's length, he assessed her more carefully. "Who'd've known. Thought you were off the streets for good."

"So did I."

"Long story?"

"Not really."

"Good story?"

"Not particularly."

"Dinner it is, then." He patted her shoulders and turned, gesturing for her to follow him. "Shouldn't spend your first night by yourself. Old instincts need time to wake up. I have a great set up. Spend the night with us. We'll hide you from the cops and the kooks, just like the good old days."

Keeping close, she followed him through the maze of tarps, burning trash cans, and shivering people bundled under secondhand blankets, crumpled newspapers, and sleeping bags. Even in the streets, some people just had better luck than others. She felt bad for those sleeping in the open, though. In the spring and summer they had to deal with dew in the morning. In this weather, they would wake up with frost coating any exposed skin. These were the ones who didn't make it decades. Their dead bodies scared rich people on doorsteps and in dumpsters. As shitty as her luck had been, it must be turning in her favor again, because Booger was back, and she'd sleep warm.

Booger actually did have a nice setup.

He'd used a few empty oil drums to support his big, orange tarp, and although the ceiling dipped a bit in the middle, there was still plenty of room for the two of them in addition to his supplies. Booger ushered her in first, sending her towards the back, where the tarp was lashed low and tight around the drums' bases. He kept near the front, a physical block between Fern and the cold. He fiddled with a can and a can opener. It didn't have a label, so dinner would be a surprise. Fern knew, whatever it was, it would taste great. She hadn't eaten since she left The Green Light, and nothing made food tastier than hunger.

As Booger worked, Fern studied his hands. The knuckles were swollen, and they moved slower than she remembered. Age made her stronger, but Booger was going down the other side of that hill, and her gains were his losses. Winter would be harder on him now. Summer would be unbearable in the sticky, city heat. But he didn't seem troubled by it at all.

"My story isn't worth telling. How about yours?" she asked.

"Nothing really special." He finished cutting off the can's lid, and he grinned as he held it out to Fern. It was a treat – pork'n'beans. She accepted it readily, and he got to work on a can for himself. He looked at an empty can of Gretta's Ravioli, which pictured a stylized fifties housewife on the logo happily posing with a casserole dish full of homemade pasta. "But your story must be interesting to somebody. You always did find me when you needed to get out of sight." He shrugged before she could apologize and continued. "Makes sense. I'm bigger than you. Or I was. Big, fat Booger blocked the view. And you brought me day old donuts to make me even bigger, you little shit. So now you're back, and maybe I shrank, but I'm still fat."

Fern chuckled, running her fingers through greasy, wind-tangled hair that desperately needed a wash. Too bad. She couldn't afford to go to any of the women's shelters. Someone would find her there. It was too obvious, and too easy to track. As a kid, she was constantly worried about the authorities catching her. As an adult, she was worried about a broad-shouldered demon and his imps. She took a deep breath and tried not to hate herself when it trembled a bit on the way back out.

"I'm scared, Booger."

He nodded eagerly. "You're afraid. Of everything! And that's good. The survivors are always scared. They know when to run, and they stay very far away from trouble. It's the brave ones who get killed. Good ones. Bad ones. Doesn't matter. Brave men, especially, have a problem. They have to prove they're brave, and they always have to _do_ something about the stuff that scares them. So, eventually, they start scaring other people, and some of those people are probably braves ones, and sooner or later, they'll do something about that thing that scared them. Now you – you could be scary if you wanted to be. But you're scared. And you're smart. So long as you don't go scaring anybody like you did poor Booger here, you'll be just fine." He nodded to himself, smiling at the empty can of Gretta's Ravioli across the tent. "That's what my missus says. It's good advice. She's never wrong, Fern. I learned that after a few trips to the doghouse." Laughing, he patted the can. "But we're past all that. And true love always wins in the end. So, here we are, together."

Fern barely managed to smile for him. God. She'd thought he'd been more stable. He just found another object for his fantasies. Was it worse, though? Seeing his wife in a can of ravioli? At least he seemed happy. She took the blanket he gave her and curled up to sleep. He chatted with his 'wife' as she drifted off, and Fern told herself the ache in her chest was just heartburn.

* * *

Only half awake, Fern watched the camp's populace shift like shadow puppets across the orange tarp. The eastern sun cut the close ones in sharp relief, and watching the blank figures move to and fro soothed her restless mind. It had been a long night, and sleeping in a bed for so many years had spoiled her. It was awfully cold, too. She wouldn't be surprised if there was ice in the potholes.

Maybe she should hit up a camping store and get a few good, thick sleeping blankets. She had more than enough money. If she was careful with the cash she'd ferreted away in her go bag, she might even be able to afford a new dirt bike once the hunt for her sorry ass simmered down. Then she could get back to work. Start climbing up in the world again…

"Alice! Alice!"

Fern groaned and rolled over, rubbing her eyes. Was he still that confused? After his discussion with his dead wife, she really shouldn't have expected anything else, but for a few hours there he'd actually remembered her name. Booger wasn't a father to her. Not even a wonky uncle. But he had been her friend when she was young, small, inexperienced, and had the greatest need of one. Now she was grown, still fairly small, but very experienced.

Her hand stilled on her face.

Did that mean it was her turn to take care of the old man?

Nah. He'd never let her. But that didn't mean she couldn't try. Maybe she could do discreet favors, like she used to, just on a bigger scale. Gather food. Save space by the fires…

"Alice!"

Well, she had no hope of going back to sleep. Might as well get up and see what had him so upset. She tugged her jacket out of her pack and kicked the rest against the wall. Booger continued shouting, so she threw it on without bothering to zip the stupid thing. Crawling out of the tent, she squinted in the sudden light. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, and she saw Booger hobbling wildly in her direction, arms flapping like a tattered bird, shouting and spitting and generally drawing far too much attention to himself.

When he saw her, he only grew more frantic. Pointing behind him, he shouted, "Run! They're looking for you, Alice! Alice!"

Fern followed his pointing finger and saw a cluster of men on motorcycles at the edge of the camp. One held something that looked suspiciously like a photograph They were all painfully nondescript, and most wore full-visored helmets, so Fern couldn't even see their faces. The few she could see didn't look familiar, but each and everyone was looking her way.. Sure, Booger was making a hell of a scene, but there was also a little fistfight going on closer to the bikes, and some lady was reaming out another, slightly younger woman about where she chose to take a piss that morning. The camp had no shortage of drama, but these strangers seemed very focused on this particular performance.

Fern didn't need to _know_ if these men had anything to do with the ones that chased her out of The Green Light. She certainly suspected it, though, and she didn't believe in coincidences. She sure as hell didn't trust five strange men on bikes, dressed to blend into a crowd, either.

She bolted.

Booger always did offer great advice.

The bikes gunned to life behind her, and someone screamed. Whether that meant the men had guns or they'd just ploughed through a tent, Fern didn't care to know. She focused on moving forward and moving _quickly_. Leaping obstacles the bikes would struggle to navigate, ducking through open lean-tos, taking sharp turns whenever one of the engines started growing louder. If it weren't for the camp, the bikers could chase her down in a heartbeat. But the temporary shelters and herds of people provided endless roadblocks for the big machines that Fern, frankly, didn't have to deal with.

But she would tire. Sooner or later, she'd run out of breath, and then it wouldn't matter how many obstacles were in the way. They'd catch her. So she had to get creative. First thing to do, of course, was break line of sight. That was harder with five pursuers, but it wasn't the first time she'd had to outsmart a group of angry men. It was her first time running from bikes, though, and so long as they were on wheels and she was on foot, they had the ultimate advantage because she could not outrun a full tank of gas. They knew it. So did she.

Time to go where wheels could not.

She had two abandoned warehouses to work with. The office block looked dangerously decrepit, and she'd learned from experience many years ago that losing a pursuer meant nothing if you lost them by plunging two stories into a dark basement when the floor gave out. The warehouse on the left had more floors, which meant more stairs and a higher chance of shaking off her hunters somewhere along the way. She dodged left, and one of the bikes swung around to intercept her. Two others also got the memo and wheeled around the outside of the camp entirely to cut off her route closer to the building.

Well. The building on the right was perfectly serviceable.

Another bike came in behind her during her brief moment of hesitation. She jumped on top of one of the trashcans used for last night's fires and sprang over the guy's head. His momentum kept him rolling away from her, and even after Fern heard the squeal of rubber signaling his halt, she knew she had another thirty seconds or so to get ahead. This rider didn't have enough room to quickly make the one-eighty turn her maneuver forced on him. The bikers who moved to block her from the other warehouse were a bigger problem. Without obstacles, they'd definitely beat her to the second warehouse.

Her luck held. The commotion in the center of the camp caused by the failed grab and ensuing redirection had the others confused for a precious minute. It was a head start Fern made good use of. As she sprinted through the warehouse's broken door, she hears several motors roaring up behind her. She wasted no time and headed straight for the stairs. If she could break line of sight, then she would have the advantage. Warehouse acoustics were a bitch, and if they couldn't see her, they'd never know which floor she stopped on. Granted, this sad little place only had three floors, but it wasn't a small space, and she could already see abandoned crates and other rubbish she could hide in. If all else failed, she could probably climb down a level on the outside of the building.

She pounded up the stairs, and all she heard was her own breath and feet. She had just reached the second level when her pursuer's shouts and steps echoed up after her.

No time to waste, then.

She found the third floor's stairwell door hanging ajar, and she left it that way. No need to confirm her chosen floor. If she was lucky, the goons would split up and she could slip past them, back down the way she came. Unfortunately, unlike the lower floors, the third was fairly clear. It also had a gaping hole in one wall letting the early morning sun bleed in. The concrete space was all red and black in the glow, and Fern was on the verge of panic as the men's voices neared. She spun just in time to see the first one reach the top of the stairs.

Instead of coming after her, though, he grabbed the door and slammed it shut. She heard something that sounded suspiciously like the deadbolt slam home, and suddenly she wondered if she'd just made a huge miscalculation. She came to realize, all too clearly, that her pursuers just locked her in a trap.

Panicked, confused, she spread her stance and looked around. Every animal instinct she possessed screamed that there was a predator stalking her.

Her heartbeat nearly deafened her, but as she stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the locked door, she suddenly heard another sound. And it sounded terribly, awfully familiar.

Breathing. Too loud to be natural.

As she turned her eyes to the source of the sound, the shadows beside the door, the devil himself stepped into the ruby red morning light. It glimmered on his mask, like fresh blood on a beast's teeth after a good night's hunting. He should look smaller in the empty space, but their sudden isolation turned him into the same ominous, looming figure who'd towered over her in the narrow alley. The emptiness worked in his favor. There were no obstacles to throw in his path. No shelter to hide behind.

She took two steps back automatically, her body trying to flee when her mind knew she could not. There was nowhere to go. She was cornered with nothing but concrete walls and sky behind her. Even as she struggled to swallow her heart – which had climbed into her mouth – back into her chest, she berated her inattentiveness.

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. They'd herded her, driven her like a deer through the complex of warehouses and makeshift shelters until she ran straight into the demon's arms.

He held his coat, just like he had in the alley, and studied her. He was entirely at his leisure. It was easy to see. Fern was trapped. He was between her and a locked door. The only other escape was the four story drop behind her.

Her heart would _not_ slow down, and her ragged breathing refused to even out.

He continued watching her.

His breath rattled is his mask, and Fern's gasping wheezes were almost loud enough to compete. It was like facing off with her opposite. Their breathing connected them, but that link was as polarizing as reality versus a funhouse mirror. The man was a towering monster, confident, assured of his victory. Fern was small, and she found herself in a half-lowered defensive position, like she thought she could somehow dodge the inevitable. It was painfully obvious who had the advantage here.

He'd planned the ambush well. Fern dealt with threats by running from them, and she had no ground to speed over, no mirrors to slip through.

He could kill her just as slowly as he pleased.

But maybe she could get him talking. Delay his inevitable blow long enough to find an escape. Gathering her breath to speak took far more effort than it should have, and her voice carried much too loudly in the empty space.

"What do you want?"

"You ended our earlier conversation rather abruptly," he said, jovial. Slowly, angling his head down to engage her, the man sauntered forward. Fern stumbled in reverse, eager to maintain the distance between them for as long as possible.

"I'm afraid I'm not finished with you." She thought he might be smiling. He certainly sounded like he was. "I have several pressing questions."

Refusing to just give up, she dared take her eyes off him in short snaps to the corners of the room. Maybe there was a handy two-by-four lying around somewhere. It wasn't an ideal weapon, but it might be enough of one for her to get the upper hand. Her eyes snapped back to him, taking in his sheer bulk and the clear definition of muscles rippling over his chest and abdomen.

Then again, anything short of a shotgun would probably just tickle him.

"I would very much like to know how you managed to elude me when last we met. It was a rather dramatic exit."

He continued casually pushing her back until she literally had nowhere else to go. Fern maneuvered herself so he couldn't trap her against a wall, but all she had at her back was empty air. It wasn't much better, but it was something. Apparently satisfied with her position, or maybe worried she'd jump before he had the chance to kill her himself, he halted his inexorable approach, leaving a precious few yards between them.

The man stood in silence, holding his lapels with pride. Waiting. The sun grew brighter, less bloody, but the scene didn't look any more hopeful. It took Fern a full minute to realize he wanted her to continue the conversation and sate his curiosity.

"You're a pretty dramatic threat," she muttered.

He nodded, acknowledging her point as fair with studied condescension. "Not enough, apparently, to convince you to reveal your secrets." Impossibly, he seemed to grow larger. Simply rolling back his shoulders made him broader, emphasizing the coiled strength locked inside his frame, ready to burst into sudden violence. The smallest movement spoke volumes.

Fern glanced over her shoulder at the drop below, reconsidering her options. This wasn't the first time he'd cornered her, and she got out of the trap before. Maybe the fall would kill her, but even that would be a kind of escape. Her gaze snapped back to the man as he took another step forward, and her own stance tensed. He could say a lot without speaking. So could she. If he kept pushing, she'd push herself right out the broken wall. She'd rather the ground break her neck than this demon before her.

He did not step forward again, but his eyes grew harder, almost glittering with a cruel, sharp intelligence as he zeroed in on his prey. "Forgive my manners," he boomed, his friendly tone entirely at odds with his expression. "We have not been introduced."

"I don't need to know your name," Fern said quickly. Names, in her experience, usually meant trouble, especially from big men looking to back her into corners.

"But it would be rude to not give you my name when I already know yours." He took a deep, rattling breath. "…Fern." He drew her name out slowly, turning her short title into something awkward and fragile. His sharp eyes pierced her. They crinkled at the corners, a clear sign of a grin behind the mask.

It dawned on her in a distant, vague sort of way that her fingernails had broken through the skin of her palms. To be fair, she wasn't terribly surprised by his revelation. He knew where she lived, after all. How much harder could it be to learn her name? But she hated it. She wanted to rip off his mask and tear her name back from his filthy lips. That was _hers_ , and she had not given him permission to use it.

Something – maybe her angry stare – prompted him to lower his grip from his collar so his hands dangled free at his sides. The right fingers twitched, like they had in the alley, and Fern prepared for a strike. Could she dodge him? He was very fast. She remembered that. But just because he was fast on his feet didn't necessarily mean he would be fast with his fists. She knew she was being too optimistic, but her survival instinct was grasping at straws to keep the panic at bay. Soon the adrenaline would fade and she'd become a shaking mess of raw nerves. This stand-off had to end, one way or another.

Just as her foot slid to the side so she could duck out of the way, the monstrous man charged forward. His hand connected with the middle of her chest, forcing out the air and pushing her over the precipice. Her stomach jumped, her mouth opened in a soundless scream, and she immediately grabbed onto the nearest solid object – which happened to be the man in front of her.

She found herself dangling over empty space, supported by her grip on her attacker's wrist and the fistful of her jacket he'd snared as he shoved her. He became her literal lifeline, the only thing keeping her from a messy end, and as her breath gradually came back to her, she could see the unfiltered delight in his eyes. This was what he'd wanted from the beginning. He had her helpless in the palm of his hand, and she clung to him even as he toyed with her life.

His frigid, scintillating eyes mocked her, and her feet fought to climb empty air.

"No need to be rude, my dear," he said. "Now," he pulled her a few inches closer to solid ground, "I have questions."

Fern glanced down. Everyone said it was stupid to look down from a great height, that it would only make things worse, but it was inevitable. People always looked. Fern did. But it hardly made her situation worse. Way down below, past her swinging feet, she saw an irregular circle of pale blue light gleaming on the pavement.

A puddle.

A puddle reflecting the bright, morning sky.

Her gaze found the monster's again, and she could tell he also noticed what she saw. He studied her curiously, clearly wondering if the puddle would let her disappear again, even as his eyebrows furrowed into a truly dangerous expression. It took a mere heartbeat for them both to realize what she was about to do.

She released her grip on his arm and threw her hands straight up into the air. Traditionally, it was a sign of surrender, but Fern was doing anything but giving up. Her weight pulled her free of the unzipped jacket, and although the man was fast, he wasn't faster than gravity. By the time he pulled the jacket back inside the warehouse, it was empty.

Fern plummeted straight down, shoes first, and she wriggled desperately midair, trying to contort herself as she fell. When skin met a reflection, she passed through. When clothes hit, they followed the traditional laws of physics. Hitting this puddle with anything but her hand would end messy. After her stare-down with the giant, however, her mind simply couldn't process any more fear, and she felt strangely calm as she finally rolled into a good position, her arm stretched out to greet its rapidly approaching twin in the water below.

She fell too quickly to register the exact moment she made contact. All she knew was that her stomach twisted as she flew _up_ , and she belated realized that the fall on this side of the mirror wouldn't be much more fun than the plunge from the top of the warehouse. Momentum from a four story fall was no joke. The reversed gravity tugged her back down just as she reached the second level of the warehouse's Other-side copy.

She would fall only half the distance, then.

But it would still hurt like a bitch.

She tucked into a ball, squeezing her knees and arms to her chest, hoping to minimize the damage. She smacked into the ground, and the impact left her truly breathless. Blazing pain lit up along her left side, from shoulder to hip. Something was broken, that was for sure, maybe even several somethings. For a while, all she could do was struggle – and fail – to breathe. Once she managed that, she could do nothing else for several long, painful minutes. She was too shocked to cry, too pained to move.

And then she heard distant chimes.

No time to recover. Move or die. The fear was instant, and her exhausted body conjured more adrenaline, demanding she _do_ something.

If she just believed this was all happening to someone else, she could make it to her feet. Her pain belonged to another poor idiot, and she simply watched from outside her broken body as it clambered upright.

She had to _move_. She had to _run_. But she barely managed to continue shuffling away from the mirrored puddle and the smudge of red she'd left on the pavement beside it. All her higher functions were stripped away, and all that remained was wild, animal instinct. And, like any wounded animal, she just wanted to crawl home.

If she stopped to think, she might have gone a few blocks and ducked out a mirror in a populated business district where the hulking demon in the regular world couldn't snatch her without drawing attention. The fall, the pain, and the fear had driven away all sense. There was only the sharp ache in her side, the arm that wouldn't work right, and the burning desire to curl up warm and safe at _home_. So she passed by many reflections, following the streets of the Other's Gotham toward The Green Light. Everything felt duller than usual. Less real. It really was all a bad dream. The only things she needed to worry about were her pain and her destination.

The first, light bells she heard faded away. As far as Fern knew, the things here didn't hunt like wolves, lions, or other regular predators. Leaving a trail of blood wouldn't necessarily draw their attention. The color, maybe, but not the smell. So long as none of the lancelots crossed her path, she'd be just fine.

Just fine.

Soon she'd be safe and warm at home with Miguel rolling his eyes and Jack trying not to show just how concerned he felt.

As her wounded mind sought comfort, she failed to recognize the approaching chimes as a serious threat. She registered the musical warning on some level, but she didn't duck and hide. She didn't stop and look for a weapon. She couldn't have picked up the pace any more even if she wanted to.

The chimes swelled behind her, and Fern's breathing hitched. She didn't understand why, but her body knew to be afraid even if her mind did not. The air shifted around a great, moving thing closing in for the kill, but Fern was at the door.

She was home. She'd crossed the city. Impossibly. And she was still alive. It didn't seem like she'd been walking for long, but the man in the warehouse seemed like a horror story from another lifetime. How long had she been in the yellow mist? Were her ribs broken, fractured, or only heavily bruised?

Full awareness crept back to her as she stepped inside the desolate, hollow bar. She paused just inside the doorway, staring at the wide mirror behind the bar, and frowned.

No, this was wrong. They had found her here before, and the demon knew her name. If she crossed here, they would know. Jack and Miguel couldn't protect her. That part of her life was over. Why had she…?

Then she was flying through the air, screaming, as an invisible lance stabbed through her shoulder.

Finally, she fully registered the deep, gonging bell in the street behind her. But even as she tried to grab the invisible blade she dangled from, she realized she was about to die. Losing focus in the Other meant losing her life. It was a hard and fast rule with no exceptions.

The lancelot was going to kill her, and it was her own fault.

The lance yanked her back towards the door, where the giant, invisible _thing_ waited, and Fern's head snapped forward with the momentum. Her teeth met over her tongue, and iron swamped her taste buds. Blood. Soon, she knew, there would be even more of it.

The lancelot must have struck from an angle, because as it tried to pull her out of her shelter, her right shoulder struck the doorjamb, pulling her off her skewer. Fern dropped to the ground with another, short scream, and the bells in the street swelled. Gasping, half-stumbling and half-crawling, she rushed behind the bar. The bells deepened – a lancelot's roar – and Fern hauled herself up the wall, stretching, fighting to reach her reflection. Her blood left her hands slick, and the smooth wood resisted her grasp.

The lancelot was deafening.

Half hysterical, she laughed.

"Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells."

Shrieking, she tried to drown out the noise around her with her own frustration. She wasn't dead yet. She wasn't dead yet! Just a little closer, stretch a little farther, and –

The world fell instantly silent, and Fern dropped with a desperate, shuddering gasp to the floor behind The Green Light's bar.

Her mouth worked in silent screams as she quietly writhed, clutching her shoulder, wrapping shaking hands around her ribs. She was in so much pain, she didn't know what parts to hold and soothe. Even in that state, however, she realized there was a terrible amount of blood, more than there should be. Contrary to pop culture, people often died from shoulder wounds, and not just from infection. The shoulder had its fair share of arterial tissue. Shock didn't discriminate based on the area of damage, either. Her ordeal wasn't over just yet, and she needed help if she wanted to survive the day.

She looked around, taking in the room, and blinked confusedly. It was late, dark outside. That was impossible. The giant cornered her in the morning. The only explanation was that she'd wandered the Other in shock the entire damn day. Escaping the lancelots' attention as long as she had was nothing short of a fucking miracle.

She was so stupid.

And she still needed help.

Groping blindly in the dark, she reached for the shelves of glasses under the bar and seized a small whiskey tumbler. It felt marvelously cool, grounding, and she almost felt bad for what she was about to do. Drawing on her remaining strength, she tugged it free of the shelf's rail and tossed it to the floor.

It bounced, making a dull _thunk_ , but it didn't break. Fern frowned. That wouldn't be enough.

Growling with building frustration, she reached up for a second glass and threw it with a little more gusto. This one struck another shelf and obediently shattered. A moment of silence followed, and Fern groaned, knowing full well she didn't have the energy to get another glass. But then the floor above creaked, and she heard two familiar, cautious voices approaching the stairs.

"Don't go down! Are you crazy? What if it's a robber?"

"That's what the bat is for."

"What if it's _those_ people?"

Rather than answering, Jack proceeded down to the bar. Fern saw his flashlight sweep the room, lingering on the windows, and she tried to get his attention without being too obvious. Another groan was about all she could manage. Thankfully, it was enough. Footsteps rushed her position, and the beam of light swing directly into her face, blinding her.

" _Fuck_."

"What is it, Jack? Is – Fern!" Miguel dropped to his knees beside her, one trembling hand held to his mouth as the other hovered helplessly over her bloody torso. "Did they do this? What happened? There's so much blood. Jack?" He looked up at his partner. "Jack, what do we do?"

They both looked towards the windows, and Jack rushed over to yank down the blinds. Not, Fern thought distantly, that it would do any good. Especially now. She had to get up and get out. Keep moving. Keep running. They were coming for her, they were coming, they were coming, they were –

"Whoa! No, babe, stay down, okay?" Miguel's hand pressed to her uninjured shoulder, and Fern was pleased to find she'd somehow rising to her elbows. Only a few more feet and she'd be upright.

Jack cursed, rushing to join Miguel in discouraging her escape. "You're just making it worse. _Stop_ , Fern."

But she couldn't, and she had to make them understand. Between the burn in her shoulder, the ache in her ribs, and the pressure of Miguel and Jack both pushing her down, however, she collapsed back to the blood-slicked floor.

"Coming," she slurred. "The-y."

Jack rested his hand on her head and took a deep breath. "Miguel. Call 911."

"Are you sure?"

"She's going to bleed to death on our goddamn floor if someone doesn't treat her right fucking now, so yes! I am fucking sure!"

"I – you're right. Yes. Okay."

As Miguel fumbled his way to the landline at the end of the bar used for customer orders, Fern realized Jack might have the right idea. The demon and his men liked the shadows. They would think twice before yanking her away from a bunch of paramedics. Wouldn't they? Maybe she'd get away again.

"Shit."

"What?"

"The line's dead. I think – I think they cut it."

" _Shit_."

Something warm and horribly abrasive pushed into Fern's shoulder, and she suddenly found the energy to scream.

Grimly, Jack murmured, "We've gotta stop the bleeding. I'm sorry."

"Cell?" she wheezed. Even the demon couldn't cut cell reception, could he?

"Gone," Jack said. "Those guys took them. Same night you ran off."

Exhausted, Fern let her eyes slip shut and sighed, "Sorry…"

Jack smacked her, and startling her back awake. She glared up at him, confused and a little hurt.

"You're bleeding out," he said. "Stay the fuck awake."

Granted a sliver of logical thought by the flesh of Jack's palm, Fern slowly processed what he'd said, and as the connections gathered, her eyes widened. Panic rose again, overwhelming everything, even the creeping fatigue of blood loss. Danger was en route, and these men who'd given her shelter and work for so many years were in its path.

"Go."

Jack froze. "What?"

"Go."

She couldn't say much more than that. She was just too tired, and her jaw wouldn't cooperate. It felt like half her body was going on strike, which she realized was a bad sign, but she had more important concerns, like minimizing collateral damage.

"Ja-" She couldn't even enunciate his name properly, but she had to get her point across. "Go."

Miguel came around to crouch opposite Jack and stroke her hand. His eyes practically glowed with unshed tears in the flashlight's glare. "Stupid girl."

But Fern focused all her attention on Jack. He was the one she had to convince now. She made sure she had his attention before delivering her final blow. "They wh – ll kill you." Her voice snagged on the last word, and her face ran hot with tears. She didn't want the boys to die. She didn't want to die, either, but she'd never needed their protection. She'd appreciated it, but she hadn't needed it. Now, they needed to get out of the way before they got hurt. She'd be okay on her own. She would. She just had to get them out of the crossfire.

She held Jack's gaze for another moment, then turned her eyes to Miguel, prompting him to follow. Jack turned from his delivery girl to his partner, and his face gradually fell. He understood what she was saying. If he couldn't run to save his own life, he needed to do it for Miguel. Laying a heavy hand on the cook's shoulder, he said, "We need to go."

Miguel gaped. "Are you kidding?"

"G-" Fern took a deep breath, shoving the men away from her. "Go!"

They were all bloody now, gleaming with smeared shadows. It clung to hands, knees, and anything those hands had touched. Miguel seemed to realize this as Jack processed the reality of the situation, and the cook weakly tried to wipe his palms cleans on his sleep pants, but the cotton was already saturated. He whimpered, and Jack closed his eyes.

He'd come to a decision. Before he could rethink it, he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and smashed the end against the bar. He pressed the neck of the jagged weapon into Fern's hand. It was almost funny. He'd be with her in name, if not in body. He didn't smile, though. "I'm sorry."

He grabbed Miguel's hand, and they sprinted into the kitchen.

Footsteps, seemingly moments later, alerted Fern to incoming company.

The glass door shattered. Men slapped away the blinds and poured into the room, guns fitted with lights sweeping the empty tables and stools. Fern knew she had to get up. The urge to run sang in her veins. She was almost surprised her blood didn't flee in streaks back through the mirror and under the kitchen door.

She felt rather than saw the giant approach through the vibrations in the floor. He stalked through the door, paused just inside the threshold, and then – ever so slowly – came around the end of the bar. It hurt deeply to know she'd overcome and survived so much only to end up back in his hands at the end of the day. It wasn't fair. He moved too fast, found her too quickly, and refused to fall prey to the basic oversights that let her live her life independently for so long.

Something dark and slick crawled up from her gut to caress the bottom of her heart. She was going to die on this floor, in the place she'd started to believe could be her home, and this demon would be the one to quash every last spark of life from her body.

Lying there in the dark, broken, bleeding, she knew one thing.

She hated him.

* * *

Bane had not been pleased when the girl literally escaped from his clutches that morning. She posed a greater threat to security than he'd originally believed if a mere _puddle_ could offer escape. And he'd let her slip through his fingers. Again. Victory had thrilled through him, and he had the little djinn exactly where he needed and wanted her, but all she had to do was drop to undo all his planning and manpower.

He would need to think about a place to keep her once her luck ran out and his grip held. Somewhere close and dark where she was never out of his reach.

When Barsad's radio chirped with a report from the men watching the place the girl used to sleep and work, he'd been delighted, if not a little disappointed. He'd thought his little ghost was smarter than that, but if her confidence led to her own fall, he would hardly reject the opportunity. He led his men up, out of the sewers, and they burst into the darkened business with excessive force. It was well past the time for discretion. Speed and ruthlessness would serve him better now.

The moment he stepped inside, bloody handprints on the kitchen door drew his attention. The rest of the bar was tidy, clean, and silent. But he could smell the blood, even through his mask, and as he approached the bar, he found much, much more than the handprints. Oh, yes. He found plenty of blood, and he found his little ghost lying face down in the middle of it. For a moment, he wondered if the girl had expired, but then she lifted her head, pinning him with a raging gaze filled with pain.

His men moved into position around him, training weapons on the girl, but he waved them off without taking his eyes from the girl. This was not their concern. He had neither need nor interest in sharing this task. Twice now, this strange little thing eluded him. The third time was the charm, and it wasn't as if she was in any condition to resist.

As if to prove him wrong, she began to move.

Slowly, impossibly, the girl climbed to her feet. She didn't stand tall, and her legs wobbled under the strain. He could read her pain in every inch of her body, in the tension screaming through bulging tendons and gritted teeth. Her own blood stained her breast like a toreador's red flag. It dripped down her shirt, pooled at her feet, smeared up her neck onto her cheek. But, despite it all, she stood. And she glared.

She lifted her chin and stared him down, offering an open challenge even as her left arm clung to her damaged torso and her blood spread slick over every inch of the bar she'd touched. She _burned_. It was more than anger. It was rage. Defiance animated her, gave her the power to tower over her own pain so she could meet him – her nightmare – toe to toe.

Bane's eyes feasted on her, and he felt no shame in letting them rove. He took a deep breath, and his hands lifted to grab the lapels of his jacket almost of their own accord.

Shattered. Angry. Ready, yet unwilling, to break.

How lovely she was.

He waited for her to move, hungry for her next step, and she did not disappoint. Using the bar to support herself, she approached him, a shattered bottle held up at his face. She moved so slowly, and his eyes consumed every movement. These were not a fighter's moves. This was a wild animal backed into a corner, lashing out with bared teeth to save her skin. She was a wild fox willing to bite off her own foot to escape the trap.

When she finally came within striking distance, he allowed her to make one good swing with the bottle. He caught her wrist easily, and the bottle slid from her bloodied palm without any encouragement on his end. Her eyes widened, her breath shortened. Panic warred with her rage, and up close, Bane could better see the damage she'd done to herself. It was quite severe. And it was time to bring this hunt to an end.

He set his open palm against her right shoulder and waited until her deliriously roving eyes finally came back to his.

"Enough," he said gently. She blinked, confused, and he took pity on the wounded, wild thing. He shoved her to the ground, bringing the fight to a swift end.

She fell back with her arms at her sides and wide gaze locked on the ceiling, lovely in the way paintings of martyrs were beautiful. She didn't rise again. Bane knelt beside her as she struggled to breathe, blood rising to stain her lips. He hummed as he contemplated her injuries. They would fester and rot in the sewers. He would have to make use of other assets.

Fortunately, in this corrupted sore of a city a little money could buy anyone's silence. And he had the perfect place to rebuild his shattered little ghost.

 **A/N: This is the chapter that never ends! And it was gonna be even longer, but I gave up and decided to reformat the next section to lead into the fourth chapter. I mean - holy shit, puppies, is this fucker long. Over 10,000 words. The next chapter will finally get into Fern's backstory/power in addition to heaping helpings of Bane.**

 **Fern's quote is from "The Bells" by Poe.  
**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I had a royally shitty month, which especially sucks since it was my birthday, and I'm usually a bit of a party diva during my special day/week/month. **

**Feedback helps me abuse my OC with a clear conscience!**

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	4. Nightmares

**T/W: Child abuse/neglect**

Chapter 4: Nightmares

An old cell in Arkham's basement made a perfectly adequate trauma center for his broken djinn. Bane had secured a number of doctors and alternative treatment centers before he ever set foot in Gotham. Between his own unique condition and the reality of occupying a city with a limited number of men, readily available medical aid was paramount to their success. A few calls, and all was ready.

The girl lost and regained consciousness several times en route to the old asylum, but a few quiet threats ensured the doctors knew the importance of keeping her alive. They wasted no time, cataloguing her injuries as they went. He told them what he could – that she'd had a rather impressive fall – but that couldn't account for the tremendous hole in her shoulder. It was not in line with the dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, and deep tissue damage along her left side. Somehow, she'd acquired even more wounds on the other side of the mirror.

Another mystery for her to answer. But in order to speak, she must live, and it would be some time before she was ready for any kind of interrogation.

The doctors flew around the room, murmuring like angry bees. They fixed a tube in her chest, and red froth gushed through. The girl began to breathe a little easier. For the past several minutes, she'd only spasmed in a vain effort to pull in oxygen. As her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, Bane continued to watch – and his lips twitched into a smile. He might've laughed. The tube was full of blood. A broken rib must've punctured her lung, and he'd had so very little to do with it.

The girl might just be capable of breaking herself without his aid. The trick would be keeping her alive long enough to break something besides flesh and bone.

As he watched, a doctor set up an oxygen mask, and the patient's breath almost immediately fogged up the clear material, obscuring her lower face. Although he could hear her murmuring, he couldn't see her lips move. How novel, he thought, to observe such a thing from a distant perspective.

Grey eyes opened – sluggishly, and not in perfect tandem. They gravitated to him, and Bane straightened, expecting a fight. But the drugs were already at work, and he could physically see the effect of the potion on her waning focus. In another few minutes, she would be in a medically induced coma. She had enough life left in her to recognize him, though. A slow blink – so slow, he began to doubt it really was a blink at all – interrupted her gaze, and this time he caught her slurred whispers.

"You're not here."

"Am I not?" he asked, sweetly condescending.

"I saw you crawl out of hell."

The doctor beside him didn't dare pause his work adjusting the girl's chest tube, but he still looked deeply disturbed.

The girl, Fern, shook her head. Or, at least she tried to. Her face twitched in the appropriate directions, but her actual skull remained stationary. "Not…. Jus…." Her words were growing fainter, and speaking clearly took tremendous effort. "Jus' a… nightmare."

Bane hummed and gingerly folded himself down to sit on the edge of the bed, just beside the patient's covered knees. He leaned forward as her eyes finally fell shut. " _Not he'_ … just. Nightmare." Her breathing deepened, her pulse slowed, and Bane brought his hand up to clasp her jaw in his hand, tenderly running his thumb along the thin line of skin left between the mask and her eye as she drifted away. A rush of satisfaction coursed through him. Her mind may be beyond his control for the moment, but he held her in his hand – very literally. He shushed her, smoothing her tangled, blood-matted hair as the distance between them simultaneously grew and closed.

"Yes," he said in a hushed voice. "Rest easy. You're in the grip of a nightmare."

He remained seated, petting her hair, until long after she surrendered to the drugs' forced rest. After so much time and frustration, he allowed himself to enjoy the spoils – and plan what to do with them once they woke. She wouldn't be an easy captive to hold. And breaking her to respond to his hand without shattering entirely would require much thought and caution. Fortunately, judging by the state of her wounds, he had plenty of time to consider his course of action.

"Doctor," he called. The man in charge stepped forward obediently, the same one who looked so worried by his patient's opinion of his employer. "Keep her sedated until she is not at risk of reopening her wounds. When she wakes, she will struggle."

The doctor bowed his head. "Yes, sir."

Bane rose from the bed, but he kept his eyes on the girl. "Do your best work, doctor. If she does not recover, or if she escapes under your watch, I will kill you." Finally, he turned to the door. "Contact me when she is out of danger."

* * *

Fern didn't dream. She remembered.

The old horrors teased her away from her broken body, allowing her to escape the present agony for the horror for empty memories that couldn't do any more harm. Her mind sank into a child's body, away from demons and broken ribs, and Fern's worries shifted.

She felt like she was suffocating. The dirty clothes burying her filled the precious little air around her face with an overwhelming stink she could taste at the back of her throat. Something tickled her ankle and she prayed – she prayed so _hard_ – that it wasn't another roach. She closed her eyes and held her breath, thinking of the way she'd seen people pray on TV. They didn't always fold their hands. That was good, because she wasn't allowed to move.

If she held very, very still, and she stayed perfectly quiet, they wouldn't even know she was there. That was the whole point.

The clothes muffled the sounds, but they didn't block them out entirely. She could hear the strange man grunting and Mommy groaning the same way she always did when she made Fern hide. Fern hoped the man would stop grunting soon and go. Once she heard the door, she could get out of the clothes pile and go to the bathroom. She'd been on her way when this stranger knocked on the door and Mommy shunted her towards the usual hiding place.

Fern hoped they'd move to a new room soon. The last place they'd stayed had had a closet where she could hide, and it hadn't smelled so bad. She could sit up and breathe so long as she stayed quiet. It was much, much better than the clothes. Dirty clothes always drew roaches. Always.

This man didn't last long. He groaned soon enough, and after laughing and calling Mommy a few rude names, he left. Fern heard the door click shut and exploded out of the clothes. She made it to the toilet just in time, but Mommy started pounding on the door and shouting.

"Hurry the fuck up! I need to clean off before I go out tonight."

Fern knew she didn't want an answer, but she tried her best to hurry. She did her business and washed her hands, careful not to touch the shiny parts of the faucet or the big mirror behind the sink. When she came back to the main room, Mommy was sitting on the bed with a needle. Fern frowned, clutching the hem of her oversized t-shirt.

"Shouldn't…?"

Mommy sighed. "Shouldn't what, you little shit?"

Fern worked her toes into the nubby carpet anxiously, chewing her lip as Mommy slid the needle into her arm. "Shouldn't you do that after you come home?"

Mommy snorted. "I'm just doing a little, kid. I'm not an idiot." She pressed the plunger and visibly relaxed as her fix surged into her bloodstream. True to her word, she only did a little. But Fern knew a little was more than enough to make things go bad.

A pillow smacked her in the face, jarring her to attention, and Mommy smiled. "Don't be so glum, you little shit. I'll bring back pizza, okay? You just watch your shows like a good girl, and Mommy will be back soon."

She showered, redid her makeup, and put on a pretty dress. Fern watched silently, hugging the pillow her mom had thrown to her. Then Mommy left, and Fern obediently flipped on the TV, hoping if she did what Mommy said, she'd remember the pizza this time and wouldn't leave Fern to drink tap water for dinner again. She'd only taken a little before she left. Maybe she'd remember this time. Maybe.

That night's failed hopes blurred, shifted, and turned into a long train of disappointments. Hunger, loneliness, and uncertainty built into a calendar marking weeks, months, and years. Motel rooms changed instead of seasons, and an anxious little child grew into a wary young girl. Mommy grew worse. Fern began to fear as much as she hoped.

Another memory swallowed her.

It was a bad night. Mommy had taken too much, and she was doing scary things. When she first came in, she squeezed Fern in a hug that was way, way too tight, and Fern's shoulder hurt when she finally let her go, cackling at Fern's cries of distress.

"Wanna go on a trip?" Mommy asked, popping the p like a clown sticking a needle in a balloon. She twirled, looking up at the ceiling like it wasn't there – or she wasn't there.

She was happy in the bad way. It was even worse than when she was angry. Angry Mommy just wanted Fern to shut up and get out of sight. Happy Mommy could do anything – bring her a book or take her through a mirror. Fern never knew.

Suddenly, Mommy remembered something and groped in her pocket. "Look! Look, Fern, I brought you a present! Wanna see?"

Fern didn't. She didn't trust presents from Mommy. Mommy said her first present was Fern's ability to go to the Other like Mommy could.

But Mommy didn't care. She whipped her hand out of her pocket and held up a bell. It glinted silver in the dim motel lights like a tiny knife. Cackling again, she swung it wildly, filling the room with delicate peels of music.

Fern clapped her hands over her ears and ran to the corner. Her legs folded up under her, and she stared back over her shoulder as her mother danced around, swinging the bell. She wanted to close her eyes, but she was afraid if she cut herself off from the motel room, she'd open them again and realize she was in the Other, and there really was a lancelot making that horrible noise, not just Mommy.

The show went on for several awful minutes, Mommy laughing all the while as Fern's face slowly dampened with very quiet tears. As she turned, Mommy caught sight of her again and swept over to grab Fern by the shoulders. The bell was still in her hand, and it slammed against Fern's ear, jolting with little chimes as Mommy hauled her out of the corner. Fern fought back reflexively, and Mommy brought her to her lap.

"Shh, shh," she said. She threw the bell over her shoulder, and Fern jumped when it hit the floor. "Shush now." Her arms locked around Fern, and her little girl tried to take some comfort in that. "I want to tell you something important. Okay? I'm gonna teach you tonight. Something I've been thinking about."

Mommy jerked Fern out at arm's length and pinched her chin to hold her attention. "Other people get to choose whether they believe in monsters, baby. We know for sure. And the monsters know about us."

She laughed, eyes lighting up, like she'd just thought of the most wonderful thing in the world. Two fingers rose to wiggle in Fern's face.

"They'll lance you straight through, baby doll. Poke ice through your heart and stab out those pretty grey eyes."

She yanked Fern close again and smelled her hair. She sighed as her fingernails pierced Fern's shoulders. "I think they like the color of blood, you know? It's not like we're any different. Little red dresses make girls look good enough to _eat_ , right? Red blood isn't that different from red apples and red cherries – or strawberries! Oh, yeah. Those are all good things.

"You know what? I bet your blood would be really pretty. Mine, too, but I bet yours is prettier. You're gonna be prettier than me when you grow up. Then all the boys will be baying for your blood, right? They'll all want _that_ cherry!" She threw her head back, laughing at her own joke, and Fern wriggled free.

The bathroom became her sanctuary for the night. She tried to sleep on a towel over the cold tile as Mommy paced, danced, and swung the bell. Fern shivered, afraid to look away from the mirror, convinced the monsters were watching her, that they were in the room behind her with Mommy, that they'd creep up and stab her if she looked away.

They had her surrounded.

As the child fell into an uneasy sleep, the adult began gathering a general awareness of her matured body. The aches came first. Even in her memories, she felt the slow fire of injuries growing over and under her skin. The child didn't remember being hurt, and Fern pulled herself farther and farther away from her tenuous grasp. With the pain came physical memory. Running. Falling. Bleeding.

Events came slower, but she felt her heart speed up as recent history pieced itself together. The break in – the camp – the warehouse – her blood on the boys and the demon towering over her. Beyond that – nothing.

Her eyes snapped open, and brilliant fluorescent lights instantly blinded her. She closed them again with a hiss before the involuntary reaction started her coughing. Her throat felt weird, almost scratched, and she'd never felt so thirsty in her life.

A warm hand cupped around the back of her head and leveraged it up as cool plastic met her lips. Water brushed her tongue, and she sipped it desperately, eyes still closed as she tried to figure out her own body. It felt like she'd been sleeping. Or dead. She'd never died before, but there was a first time for everything. If she was waking up – from sleep or death – then what had happened after the demon found her in The Green Light?

The hand left her, and the cup left her lips. She carefully opened her eyes again, allowing the light to filter through narrow slits until she could handle the brilliance. Gradually, the space around her resolved itself into a room instead of a white smear, and Fern rolled her head to the side, looking for the face that went with the helpful hands.

The demon's fanged mask greeted her.

She sprang into action, flying upright, only to find her wrists and ankles shackled to the bed. She fought the restraints wildly, yanking and thrashing hard enough to jolt the entire hospital bed. Before she could make any progress, however, her watcher leaned in to bring a stop to it.

A burst of static rattled through the mask. Maybe he meant to shush her, but the apparatus over his face twisted it into something ominous. He placed a hand in the middle of her chest and pressed down gently, giving her the option to follow his implicit command before he forced the issue.

Enough hurt without a cracked sternum. Fern obeyed and reclined back into the flat pillow, but her eyes never left his.

"You are always in such a rush to bring our conversations to an end," he said. "We have yet to finish introductions."

She couldn't tell if his playful voice meant he was actually happy or simply masking pent up frustration. As expressive as his eyes and words could be, he was very controlled. Too well controlled for an easy read.

His hand was still on her chest. Best to move carefully.

"You already know my name."

"Yes. But you do not know mine."

"You're a demon."

It just popped out, and her jaw closed with an audible click, too late to catch the words behind her teeth. Tight-lipped, she stared at the monster in mute horror, waiting for his reaction.

She couldn't be sure, but the way his eyes folded up, she assumed he was smiling.

"How very perceptive you are," he purred.

 _That_ was a dangerous tone. Carefully, she shifted into a more defensive position. There wasn't much she could do, tied down as she was, but maybe she could still use her knees or hips to throw him off if he came at her. He clearly read her intentions – with both hand and eye – and his voice was downright merry when he spoke again.

"Perceptive _and_ determined. Good." He finally sat back, taking his overheated palm with him. Fern breathed more easily with it gone. "I feared the fire had been snuffed out in your fall."

Fern clung to silence, wary of giving the monster more ammunition to use against her. He didn't seem to mind.

"You slept for two months." The teasing glee drained, leaving a hollow practicality to fill out the words. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees with clasped hands. "Gotham is not as you left it. But that should not concern you. You will find your world is much smaller now. And you never existed in the eyes of the larger world. Did you?"

His eyes meandered their way to hers as he spoke, and this time, he seemed to expect an answer. Still hesitant, Fern drew a breath, but held her tongue. Even now, she had options. Bad ones, but still. He might hit her if she didn't speak. Or he might hit her regardless. Maybe confirmation of her anonymity granted him a different kind of privilege over her life.

For the first time in a while, she really had no idea what to do.

The big man reached out. Fern flinched violently, but he only patted her – heavily – on the shoulder. "I shall tell you what I know. Then you will tell me what I do not."

He held her gaze ruthlessly. He didn't need to say he expected her undivided attention. Fern didn't have a problem granting it.

"Your name is Fern. I do not know your family name. You touch mirrors and disappear. I do not know where to. Or how." He shifted in his chair, muscles rippling, but he didn't break eye contact. His questions were too close. Too dangerous. He might as well be peeling back her skin to have a look inside.

"Your answers will help me determine what to do with you. You will find the truth yields far less painful results."

Fern shivered in her skin. Adrenaline still coursed through her veins, and she struggled to talk through gritted teeth. "I don't –" She licked her lips. Deep breath in. Long breath out.

At least he was a patient demon.

"I don't have a _family_ name."

He nodded. "Is there no family to give one?"

"Not anymore."

His silence suggested another question. But he didn't voice it. He only sat quietly, waiting for her to tell him the rest of what he wanted to know.

Family was the easy stuff.

"I don't know what to tell you," she said guardedly. "About the reflections."

"Everything."

He said it like that was something simple, and an edge of frustration sliced through the periphery of her worry.

"I've never – I don't talk about it."

With a muted groan, the demon pushed himself up by his knees and turned to sit on the edge of her bed. The restraints didn't give her room to scoot away. His hand rested on the blanket over her thigh, and she felt his restless fingers tapping away.

"You must accustom yourself to new trials," he said slowly, like he was working very hard to maintain the dregs of his patience. "Consider this the first." His head swiveled to face her, and the fanged mask leered down. "Do not make this difficult."

His hand flexed on her leg, and the damn broke.

"I don't know how I do it. My mother could. She never told me anything, though."

The grip locked in place, but it didn't tighten. He hummed.

"What happens when you disappear?"

"I go to the Other. I don't know what it is. But there are monsters."

The hand left her thigh, and the adrenaline flooded out of Fern's system so fast she probably would've collapsed if she wasn't already in bed.

"Monsters?" He sounded almost amused. Fern couldn't muster the energy to hate him for that. Her endocrine system was spent.

"Monsters," she said. Flat. Toneless. "Lancelots. They –" She tried to touch the wound, but the cuff stifled the gesture. Ah, yes. How could she have forgotten? Shrugging, she said, "Shoulder."

"And what do your monsters look like, Fern?"

She closed her eyes. She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to talk to him. Certainly not about the lancelots. "Invisible."

On some level, she still worried about that hand returning to her thigh. But she only just woke from a coma, and he'd thrown her right into the fire. He would get his answers. Just very short ones.

"Good." He touched her shoulder again, and she twitched involuntarily a second time. "We will speak again when you are settled."

Her eyes flew open. "What do you mean?"

Rising, he said, "Your world may be smaller now, but you did not think I would keep you tied to that bed forever, did you?" He stopped to really look at her, eyes almost warm with approval. "Honesty is rewarded. You will understand more with time."

He stalked out of the room quietly, and Fern wondered again how the hell such a mountain of muscle could move with such stealth.

It was only when a doctor in a white lab coat came to check her vitals that she realized: he hadn't told her his name.

 **A/N: Well, this was a short chapter. Think of it as a transition (because it kind of is). As you can probably guess, shit changes from this point on. Chap is also short for mental health reasons, honestly. My car died, my sewing machine died (in the middle of a commission), and due to petsitting some aging little dogs, I'm more than a little sleep deprived. I DO have chunks of the next chapter already written, though, so I hope to have the next installment up by next weekend.**

 **If Bane seems a little off in this chapter - his motives aren't an actual, full interrogation. He's testing the waters and making sure she doesn't have backup (family) with similar abilities who might cause problems. That's all he really needs at this point. There will be MUCH more in-depth interaction between the two in the coming chapters, of course, so please stick with me!**

 **Question: Should I bump this story up to an M rating now or later?**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Guest (1): Thank you so much for the review, and I'm glad it came out at the right time. I'm happy to have helped steady your nerves - even if only for a moment or two.**

 **Guest (2): Thank you very much! The update didn't come as soon as planned, and it's shorter than expected, but I hope you enjoy it regardless!**

 **Shrubby: Lol! Thanks for the review, dear. I see you forgot your login.**


	5. Introductions

**Rating bump notes: I agreed with reviewers who pointed the child abuse, language, and threats of the past chapters validated an M rating, so I went ahead and bumped it up. That doesn't mean there will be a sudden, dramatic shift in content. I know not all my readers want ALL kinds of mature content. If (and that actually IS still an IF at this point) the story heads towards a scene with explicit sexual content, I'll give you a heads up. No worries.**

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Introductions**

A man in red scarf came to her room. He wore drab military gear and a bulletproof vest. He even toted a rifle over his shoulder. But it was the scarf that snagged Fern's attention.

Her mother's memory sat too close to the surface after her long vacation in her own head.

 _Red blood isn't that different from red apples and red cherries._

The doctor had tried feeding her red Jell-O right after she woke, but she couldn't even look at it, let alone eat it. This man and his ugly damn scarf were just about as welcome as that pseudo-food.

He just stood there in the doorway for a while, observing her, and Fern tried to hold very still. Her sheet hid the shackles that kept her locked in place. Maybe this stranger didn't know she was helpless. Tied to a bed on her back. His sleepy gaze didn't seem particularly lustful, but the most dangerous men rarely gave women the courtesy of a visible warning. Most. The masked man was danger incarnate.

Did the scarf soldier work for him?

The stranger walked over to her bedside, and her stomach clenched. As he reached into his pocket, she gave her shackles an experimental yank. No point hiding her condition. He clearly knew her situation. The binding held strong as ever, and the man didn't even look up as he pulled out a loaded syringe and uncapped it.

That didn't look safe.

Fern snatched up the little button the doctor had left for her to call him with and pressed it rapidly. As much she disliked him and his nasty Jell-O, he was better than this stranger with a needle. And even if the doctor probably worked for the demon, he must've still taken the Hippocratic Oath. Letting strange men in military gear inject foreign substances into his patients had to go against the rules.

The button triggered a little chime in the hall – another thing in this damned place that made Fern want to scream – and the stranger paused to give her a very amused smirk. But he didn't say a word as he lifted the blanket off her arm and pinned down her wrist so he could stick the needle in the crook of her elbow. Fern hissed as the needle slid home and something cool pushed into her bloodstream.

The doctor didn't come. The stranger pulled out the needle and threw it away. Then he stood there, watching her, clearly waiting for his serum to do its work. It didn't take long.

Spots of light stuck in her field of vision, leaking beams as she shook her head. Everything slowed. Her sense of time jerked in awkward leaps. Sounds and sights didn't quite align. If she could feel enough of her body, it probably would've made her sick. As it was, she didn't realize the soldier with the red scarf had released her shackles until he clipped a pair of handcuffs behind her back. That moment of clarity vanished into shadow.

A black hood swallowed her head, and the soldier pulled her forward. She tried to keep up, but even when she could feel her legs, she couldn't always control them. The floor chilled her bare feet, and her toes stubbed on every bump and crevice. Maybe he dragged her. Maybe he carried her. All she knew was movement and confusion. Cold air rushed her, then warmth and brief comfort. All the while, they continued to move. Even when she sat, she felt the world move around her, pulling her in strange directions as inertia had its way with her drugged limbs.

Cold again, and noise.

Her breaths came back in her face, hot and quick. There wasn't enough air. She had no idea how long they'd been moving, how far the soldier brought her, but the drug was fading. Panic bubbled up from her fractured psyche to take its place. Everything became too clear, even with the hood. She still wore the thin, cotton gown from the medical center. Her legs didn't just ache – they struggled to support her at all. All those days asleep in the white room weakened her. Without the firm grip on her upper arms, she would not be standing.

The soldier hauled her up several flights of stairs. The first step came as a surprise, and Fern smacked her shin hard against the lip. They didn't slow, and she floundered madly to keep from further damage. All the exercise cost her more breath, and soon the bag slipped into her mouth with each tug of air. It tasted like sweat.

After the stairs, the soldier led her through an echoing space. A hallway, maybe? Something with hard floors and high ceilings. Nothing to absorb the sound.

That was how she heard him. The demon. His mask boomed with his voice, sending shards of terror thrilling up Fern's spine. For the first time since the soldier unshackled her from the bed, she struggled. It was not a terrific effort, but she got one shoulder free, unbalanced herself, and crashed to her knees.

The soldier yanked her up like nothing had ever happened.

"Steady now."

He marched her forward, and then the demon's voice swelled around her, his words clear.

"As we agreed, Miss Kyle, I give you your life. Enjoy it! But do remember that this is a new Gotham. There are not many rules, and I don't expect you'll have trouble following them."

Suddenly, they stopped moving. The soldier yanked her shoulders back as they came to halt, and he ripped the bag away. Tears flooded her eyes. The light hurt after so much darkness, stabbing her delicate senses like knives.

"Who is this?"

Fern blinked. She could barely make out the woman speaking. She was beautiful, dressed strangely, and clearly displeased if her pouting red lips were any indication.

The demon stood near her, separated by a table littered with maps and charts. He seemed in a terribly good mood.

"She is no one. You may consider her a cautionary tale." He waved the woman off, and she peered at Fern warily. "You may go now. See to it that we do not meet again."

The woman only hesitated for a heartbeat. Her eyes held Fern's, and for a moment, they shone with something like pity. Fern ached to be in her place. She got to walk away. And she did. Miss Kyle did not look back. Fern knew, because she watched the empty doorframe until long after the tapping heels sauntered out of earshot.

When she looked back, the demon stood little more than a hand's breadth away. She recoiled, or tried to, but her legs didn't work, and the soldier with the red scarf still held her by the arms. How had she forgotten his stealth? Even with inches of open air between them, his body heat washed over her, choking and invasive. He really was a demon, burning from within.

"Welcome, my dear. Did you give Barsad much trouble?"

She didn't answer, so the soldier did.

"Weak as a lamb. No trouble, sir."

"Good." He folded his massive palm around her arm, and the soldier stepped away. Suddenly the red scarf didn't seem so bad. Fern wanted him back.

He was going to take her somewhere. He was going to hurt her. She had to stall.

"Why am I here?" She leaned back, knees bent, like she had the strength to tear away and sprint to freedom. Maybe she'd land in another puddle if she jumped through the window.

He appraised her, holding her at a short distance as he determined his answer. If that was the reward for speaking, she would never shut up.

Eventually, he found the right words. "Everyone has a purpose. You are here to learn yours," he said solemnly

That didn't sound promising, or safe. When he stepped forward, he dragged her with him, despite her pitiful attempts to lock her knees and drag her feet. She ended up half-dangling from his grip, sideways, even more helpless than before. Her efforts didn't even slow him.

He brought her to a door. As he opened it and pushed her forward, she caught a glimpse of bare, grey walls, a low ceiling, and little else. Since she was barely on her feet before the shove, she slid rather than stumbled through. Her head bounced off the concrete, and she blearily looked up to find a drain embedded in the floor, just in front of her nose. Was it a janitor's closet?

That did not bode well.

Something rattled behind her, and a booted foot set itself over the drain as her captor pushed her onto her belly. He lifted her cuffed hands to an awkward angle, and she yelped as her stiff joints flexed back. A click, and he released them. They weighed much more than they had a minute ago. Gingerly rolling her head to face the opposite direction, she found a heavy chain snaking across the floor, anchored to a pipe in the wall.

She blinked. Swallowed. Choked down a scream as realization dawned.

A chain. She was chained to the wall like an _animal_. He was going to lock her in this concrete room and throw away the key. Panic _burned_ through her. It overrode all sense, all instinct, all thought. Rolling, she tried to free her hands from the cuffs, thrashing like a fish on a dock. Her rolling eyes found the demon looming over her, calm, and civilized, and terrible.

He stepped over her, leaving her to frantically try to get to her feet as he grasped the doorknob.

"I will see you again this evening. I will bring the antidote with me then."

What?

"Antidote?"

He reached in his pocket, fished out something small, and tossed it in the room. Then he closed the door, and a gentle hiss filled the silence as the lock clicked into place. It wasn't the rasp of his mask.

Fern smelled something strange. Chemical and floral. She couldn't see anything besides the narrow crack of light under the door, but something whispered in the back of her mind that the shadows were moving. Invisible things crouched there. Sharp things. Hungry things that loved the color red, and wasn't she just so, so _tasty_.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to hold her breath.

Antidote. He'd poisoned her. This wasn't real. She hadn't touched a mirror. There were no monsters except the man outside. That scratching wasn't a lancelot creeping closer.

Her mother's cheap perfume crept into her sinuses. She couldn't breathe. Long hands with sharp nails twined around her neck, and even though she couldn't see her, she could feel her there, gasping and laughing as she tried to blot out her _mistake._ Fern screamed and kicked. She had to get away – she had to get free!

Bells rang all around her, clanging as the monsters moved in for the kill. She cried, begged, and shouted for help. No one came. Her throat ached, and eventually she could do little more than rasp and whine as the horrors gathered closer. She alternated between desperate flailing and perfect stillness, convinced the monsters couldn't see her if she didn't move.

It felt endless. Maybe it was. She'd died and gone to hell. The demon had dragged her to his home.

She forgot about the handcuffs. When she remembered, from time to time, it was usually because something dripped from her fingers, her palms felt wet, and she convinced herself the little cell was flooding. No chance of swimming. The chain would pull her down.

Awareness came in brief, opaque waves nearly as suffocating as the hallucinations.

No shelter. No relief. Her heart beat so hard it hurt. She tasted blood, and each new pain only fueled her terror.

She closed her eyes: darkness.

She opened her eyes: darkness.

Seething, writhing black that ate the world.

Hadn't her mother been there?

The lancelots were coming.

Fern wriggled her way back to a wall. For a brief instant, the cold grounded her. Reality, however, only offered a new horror to focus on.

Something… something worse. The man in the mask. The demon said he'd be back.

She trembled so badly she wondered how she didn't crumble to pieces. This was the end. This was death. She was the sparrow with the broken neck, eaten by worms.

No. Worse. Every nightmare. Every insidious fear from her days on the streets and her nights driving through a corrupt city. She'd fought so hard to stay alive. She fought her mother. She fought strangers on the street. She fought compassion and connections that came with binding strings hidden in the fine print. As much as she wanted to live, though, she knew there were things worse than death.

The man in the mask clearly had no problem hunting, no problem breaking people when they became an inconvenience. He'd seen her little magic trick, and now he was going to try breaking her like an animal until she told him the how and why of her gifts. Since even she had no idea how her mother gained the trait, or how she passed it on, she had no ready answers to give. The man would do things to her she couldn't imagine.

All she could think about was the dead girl in the alley, the proof of her own vulnerability as a woman.

He would eat her alive.

Heavy footsteps approached the door, and she froze, praying they would pass her by. They stopped, two feet interrupting the crack of light creeping under the door.

"It's not real," she whispered. "Just a nightmare." Her voice trembled. So did her hands, her knees, and her soul.

The door opened.

The monster stood there, eyes burning, fangs snapping, and Fern leapt to her feet. She had to fight, or she would die. She had to get free, or she would suffer.

The big bad wolf would swallow her whole.

She pulled on her chains, screaming in fear, rage, and desperation as the giant slowly stalked across the room, his gait slow and inexorable as death. One great hand lifted to grab her by the throat. Fern dodged his claws and threw herself forward, smashing her head into his jaw. Her forehead caught on his teeth, and hot blood dripped into her eyes as he laughed, fangs gleaming red.

"Good!" He moved too fast to see, and suddenly the handcuffs fell away. His massive chest crowded her against the wall. "Fight me! Try to burn me."

Screaming, she clawed and kicked. His hand came too close to her face and she snapped at it, barely missing his thumb. The other hand swung up, catching her by the neck and pinning her against frigid cement. Even then, she continued to fight.

No thought. No plan.

Just pure, unadulterated terror.

A needle glinted in the dark, sharp and cruel as the demon's fangs, and it sank deep into her neck.

The cooling serum drowned all sensation. The terror ebbed with each heartbeat, swirling away down the drain in the floor as her body lost the will to move, let alone fight. In a few moments, she went from a cat yowling for its life in the hound's jaws to a limp ragdoll dangling from the demon's fist. He watched her all the while, judging the antidote's progress as her adrenaline abandoned her.

Impossible fatigue weighed down her limbs. Keeping her eyes open was the most she could do.

The demon petted her hair, maintaining his grip as she went slack. "Very good." His voice stayed soft, or at least as soft as the mask would allow. The tone seemed better suited to threats than comfort, though. "You've done well."

He hoisted her over his shoulder, and they left the dark room with the long chain. Fern could only watch the muscles shifting under his black shirt, utterly at his mercy as he transported her. When he released her, she fell on something soft. The tides of war shifted against her as she fought to remain awake. The sudden change from wild panic to utter passivity revealed a host of new aches, and all she wanted was to sleep and forget them. She pushed her body past its limits as she fought the shadows. Now it demanded its due rest.

"Do not sleep yet," the demon said.

Big hands lifted hers. He cleaned and dressed the gouged skin around her wrists carefully – if not gently. The antiseptic's sting helped her stay awake. She wondered what he would do to her if she disobeyed. Beneath her boneless calm, a tickle of fear stirred. He was so close. So big. All too real.

The demon wiped the blood from her face and lifted each foot, ensuring she hadn't collected any glass or nails during her trip to his door. She felt like livestock, manhandled and examined for wounds that might decrease her value.

When he finished with his work, the demon rose to kick off his boots. Fern watched as he lifted up his shirt to unclasp a heavy brace, then as he rolled up his right sleeve to remove another. He didn't fully strip, but Fern didn't like his willing vulnerability. It meant he was more than confident. He knew for a fact she could not best him. Could not hurt him.

She tried to roll away, and she realized she was in a bed. The blind panic induced by the poison didn't return, but a familiar dread filled her stomach with rocks. So, she'd survived. But she may not make it through the night.

A heavy weight settled behind her, and she caught her breath. He lifted her again, arranging her so she faced the wall. Then his arm twined around her stomach.

She took shallow breaths, trying not to touch his forearm as she inhaled. Although the fatigue still sat heavy in her bones, sleep vanished from her mind. When would he move? When would he touch her? No wonder he left her to scream and struggle alone in a room all day. He wanted her nice and docile when he brought her to bed.

 _His_ bed. She couldn't deny that was where she was. The closet had been terrible, but just as she regretted the loss of the man in the scarf when he handed her off to the beast, she missed the closet now that she found herself literally in the monster's arms.

He must have felt her rapid breathing, or guessed her fear.

"You are safe. Sleep." He adjusted his grip around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, like he thought she might still muster the energy to flee. "I cannot trust you on your own. This is a better arrangement than sleeping in shackles, is it not?"

It took effort, but Fern managed to answer. "No thank you. I prefer the handcuffs."

"Your opinion does not matter here. Sleep."

They lapsed into relative silence. His mask continued rattling, and Fern could hear her pulse thundering in her ears. Limp and weary as she was, she couldn't sleep. Even if she was warm. Even if the bed was soft. It wasn't that simple. Her head spun. Her stomach clenched in knots.

And then she realized.

"I still don't know your name."

He hummed, and she felt the vibration against her back.

"You finally found the courage to ask."

Silence fell again. For a minute, she thought he wouldn't answer.

"I am Bane."

* * *

 **A/N: Well, good news first: Shrubby darlin' got married! I was her maid of honor/something blue, so that was lovely.**

 **Then I got stuck in a temp living situation that is EXTREMELY bad for my mental health, my mom had surgery, and this weekend (the same night I planned to update this) I finally talked my dad into taking her to ER because the incision on her throat was swollen/bleeding. She is on blood thinners. It doesn't take a genius to know what those symptoms mean. She had emergency surgery. She is still in the hospital, but she's stable. It was a hematoma. They are working on getting her potassium levels back up/balancing things out so this doesn't happen again. Needless to say, I'm exhausted.**

 **I want to thank those reading my other Bat-fic, _Same Old Theme_ , who reached out in reviews and messages to make sure I was okay. I'll thank you each personally, but your sweetness and consideration deserve public recognition. **

**I'm not entirely happy with this chapter because it's so short, but it was kinda part II of the last chapter, which was a bridge chap. Next chap may not be longer, but it will be better and more focused.**

 **And Fern finally knows his name!**

 **Question: I'm posting a 'soundtrack' for the chapters of my other fic. Is that something ya'll would be interested in?**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Guest: Your wish is my command! Thank you very much for the review, and you better buckle up, because there are many more interactions to come!**


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